


Away to Darker Dreams

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Sam, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally hunting on his own, Dean makes a trip to Stanford to visit Sam, only to find his little brother's gone missing. And when he finally does stumble upon him in a dark twist of fate, Sam is not the boy he used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away to Darker Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Wooo, here it is, my first Sammy bigbang!!!! I've had this idea in my head for over a year, and I hope I did it justice. I was paired with an amazing artist, Cassiopeia7, you have to check her stuff out <3

[LJ Post](http://excoyote.livejournal.com/13121.html) \- [Art Post!](http://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/595724.html)

 

Dean wakes with an arthritic ache in his shoulder and the smell of a few too many days without a shower burning in his nostrils. He flings himself upright with a groan, the tips of his hair brushing the roof of the car as he paws at his eyes with the bases of his palms, trying to scrape away the grogginess. He squints as he takes in his surroundings-- still in the back lot of a Walmart, yep, only now sharp golden sunlight is streaming into the car, making the crumpled beer cans and chip bags littering the floor glitter and shine.

 

It’s too damn bright, that’s what Dean thinks.

 

He makes another huffing sound and rolls his shoulders, wincing, pressing the pads of his fingers into the muscles on his back and feeling the tightness there. This had been his fourth night sleeping in the Impala, and the fifth day without a shower, and he's scruffy and pale, and well. All of that disarray is catching up with him, but he can’t help it. His mind has been cobwebbed over, the single track of thought running through his head bumping into itself and repeating over and over:

 

_For sale. For sale. For sale. Vacant apartment._

 

He’d been hunting on his own for about two months now, had taken down a decent amount of shifters and spirits, and without Dad’s stern, disapproving glare, well, he thought it was high time to pay little Sammy a visit up in his college town. He and Dad had cruised by Sam’s place a couple times, sure, but never stopped in, just checking to make sure he’s alive and breathing. Safe. And time after time, he always was.

 

Except, obviously, the one fucking time Dean had the independence and the balls to meet Sam face-to-face. This time he’d pulled up to a for sale sign out front, an open house in progress, people coming in and out of the front hall. The door was propped open. Dean recognized a chattery woman in a smart suit as the realtor, probably, so he parked the Impala a ways up and sauntered in, putting on the front of an earnest grad student looking for a place to live.

 

He was a very smart buyer, he’d said, yes indeed. He wanted to know all about the house’s history, the previous owners…

 

She told him how the previous owner had left without warning, the bills going unpaid until they officially evicted the place and put it on the market as vacant. With the flip-flopping feeling in his stomach that only comes with bad omens, he’d thanked her, left, and called Stanford.

 

Disenrolled, they’d said. Was doing great his last semester but withdrew his scholarship. Didn’t have a current school registered, sorry sorry sorry. No idea where Sam Winchester had disappeared to.

 

Which had led Dean to where he was now-- after a few days of practically losing his mind hunting day and night for any semblance of a lead, he’d run out of cash, but didn’t want to leave town. Just in case Sammy was still here somewhere and Dean would yell and him and Sam would laugh and say _calm down, Dean. Just lemme explain everything to you._

 

Another gut feeling tells Dean that’s never going to fucking happen.

 

He sighs, gets out of the car and stretches, the bones in his back popping after being cramped up in the same place for so long. He moves around quietly, listening to the distant hum of the highway and the occasional plane flying overhead.

 

He makes his way to the trunk and gargles some mouthwash, runs a hand through his hair. Puts on some deodorant. Clunks into the backseat and quickly changes his boxers into another pair he's only worn a couple of times. Hops back out.

 

He looks around. He’s outside of Palo Alto now, in some slightly-shittier nearby town. Not nearly as collegiate and shiny. The heat and dry air and tall palm trees are really starting to piss him off. There should always be a few clouds overhead, okay? Pavement cracked and potholed and motels in disrepair. It was just too… too dreamland here, too put together, too much education and wealth and safety. He hates how much Sam fits in here, hates even more that he’s gone.

 

He stretches one more and cracks his knuckles to stop himself from beating up his own car in a misguided attempt to let out all his anger and indignation. He opens the door and slides back in, the car dipping under his weight. He starts the engine, sees he’s running low on fuel, and swears.

 

He spends his last couple bucks on a gallon or two and gets onto the highway, drives Southeast. His phone sits on the seat next to him, the screen throwing up little beams of sunlight all over the car. He shoots a quick glare at it. He doesn’t want Dad’s help, doesn’t need it. As far as John Winchester knows, Sam is on his way to earning a degree and is on the Dean’s list with a girl on his arm.

 

Dean intends to keep it that way.

 

He keeps going until the bars are sufficiently seedy and plays a couple guys at pool, really plays them. He has to work harder because he doesn’t have Dad or Sam to play with him, to make it more realistic. He walks out with a couple hundred bucks and starts running when he hears footsteps and raised voices behind him, sliding into Baby and gunning it the hell outta there.

 

He only stops when he’s passed the California border into Nevada and starts heading due East across the states. He’s almost through Nevada when his head bobs and the car veers dangerously to the side, the headlights illuminating the guardrail, his eyes blinking owlishly as he corrects his driving. He finds a Motel Six and books a room, flopping onto the bed and letting sleep finally wash over him, tossing and turning with dreams of Sam in front of him, screaming, reaching out, but the moment Dean’s fingers grasp his brother’s, Sam is pulled away into darkness.

 

 

 

He wakes in a burning sweat to the sound of a fist pounding on his door and a voice telling him he’s past checkout, the racket assaulting his ear drums and pressing a headache into the center of his forehead. He gets up, gets moving, and is on the road again in less than hour, feeling like he never slept at all, and he's still no closer to finding Sam.

 

He calls hunters, calls specialists, mystics, psychics, every damn contact in his phone. Where’s Sam, where’s Sam, _where’s Sam_. No one’s seen him, no one’s crystals point him in the right direction, no one has so much as a fucking feeling about Sam. It’s like he doesn’t exist. He tells each and every one of them to keep an eye out before tossing his phone across the seat in agitation, the standstill making his knee jiggle, the Samless feeling buzzing through him like an unpleasant high.

 

Dean’s around Colorado and running low on money again when he considers the lack of evidence a lead. What if something’s taken Sam, something that gets rid of people’s psychic signatures, erases people’s memories, that kind of thing? People have still heard of Sam, so Dean’s not going fucking crazy. Maybe something is covering up its tracks.

 

Dean almost has to give the monster credit-- with all the miles he’s been eating up, the calls and roadhouse visits, he should’ve found something. Whatever this thing is, it's got juice.

 

And that’s what Dean has begun to think of it as-- a monster. Something That’s Got Sammy. It’s the only answer he can bear. Sam has to be in trouble. He has to need help. Because if he’s just decided to leave, make sure his family can’t find him…

 

Dean taps the wheel a little too aggressively in time with the music. No. Sam wouldn’t do that to them, even after what Dad said and even after Dean refused to drive him to the bus stop. Even with all the guilt turning Dean’s insides to slush, Sam is a better kid than that. By now, a better man.

 

Christ. Dean can’t help a little wry grin from spreading across his face. He hasn’t seen Sam in a year, hasn’t spoken to him on the phone in two, hasn’t talked to him in person in four. Sam’s growth spurt hadn’t stopped last time he’d seen him, he’s probably still growing, still filling out, no longer lanky in any sense of the word. He could probably seriously take down Dean now. Dean wants to see him so badly, he wants to slap Sam on the arm and feel the muscles move there, see scruff on Sam’s jaw and more years in his eyes. He wants to feel him.

 

He fucking misses him.

 

Now that he’s in trouble, not just a phone call or a drive away, the feeling is bigger, a cloud hanging over Dean and a fog in front of his eyes, clouding his judgement. Even after all the separation, Dean still feels like he should’ve been there for Sam, should’ve protected him and seen something coming.

 

Resolve grown into a monster all its own, Dean keeps straight, heading toward Kansas, where a psychic that Dad knows could help him locate even the trickiest of target lies. He thinks of Missouri, hopes she can sense him coming, hopes she’ll be ready with good news and a promise or two.

 

Whatever’s got Sam is gonna wish it never even touched him. When Sammy's in trouble, Dean's a giant tsunami of force not to be reckoned with.

 

 

 

He’s in Dodge City when he needs gas, grub, and cash again. He finds a string of motels across from a bar and a gas station and turns in to the one with the lowest rates, only the letter “S” weakly working on the blue neon sign. His car bumps and bounces over the uneven ground and he smiles, looking up at the peeling and faded yellow paint on the joint's walls. Just like home.

 

In the bar, he plays pool for a bit before seeing a poker game in the back. He joins in, makes it out with around half a grand. It’s not much, but it'll keep him going for a while longer. He considers signing up for credit cards, seeing if any companies’ll bite. He decides he doesn’t have the time. He’s walking back to his motel, buzzed on enough beer to not be coordinated enough to whistle and walk at the same time. He passes by one of the better motels and can see the Impala shining in the crappier parking lot up ahead of him. He speeds up his pace, tripping only once, and makes a beeline for it, jaywalking and stepping off of the sidewalk to weave between a few scraggly hedges.

 

The night air is cool and tantalizing and his motel room only holds problems with no answers, so he leans against his car’s trunk instead, staring up at the sky. He can only see about three or four stars and the moon’s almost full.

 

 _Waxing gibbous_ , he can almost hear Sam murmur to his left. _And see those three stars, so close together? Orion’s belt. He’s the hunter. Fitting, huh? Look, there’s the rest of him._

 

“Nerd,” he mumbles before he can stop himself, the persistent little ache in his chest tugging at his heart and his tear ducts. He clears his throat, looking down at the city to turn his thoughts away from the empty spot next to him.

 

Yellow streetlights dot all the roads, bathing everything in a dying, dark light. It turns people’s faces nefarious, their lines and shapes put into stark contrast of light and shadow. The world is pools of black and light, glaring beams of headlights and tail lights, speeding past and burning little afterimages into Dean’s retinas. It's the kind of world he grew up in, and he takes comfort in the threatless shadows.

 

A shape, tall and lean, lingers at the street corner the motel sits on. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands shoved into hoodie pockets. He’s waiting for something. A car pulls up, sleek and black, and the reflection of the streetlight on glass disappears when the passenger window is rolled down.

 

“How much for a night, sugar?” a voice calls, low and dark, and Dean can hear him even from here, his cadence echoing loud and clear.

 

“For you?” the kid replies, and Dean chokes on nothing, leaning forward, straining to hear him talk again. His heart is rattling around like pinball machine and it floods his body with warmth and adrenaline. “real cheap, I promise.”

 

Dean’s moving forward before he even has a plan, crossing the parking lot with long, purposeful strides. He can hear the car door unlock and swears under his breath, breaking into a run, weaving back and forth like a fucking idiot, cursing himself for not being more sober.

 

“Hey!” he calls when the kid- it can’t be him, can it?- leans down and tugs on the car door handle. The guy  in the driver's seat freezes, turning to look at him. Dean stops a few feet away, putting his hands on his knees and panting.“Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it,” he manages, popping a toothy grin.

 

Sam lets go of the door and the car speeds off, the tires squealing as it does a u-turn, the door slamming back shut, peeling back toward the way the bastard came from. Sam’s face is drawn and gaunt, and the lighting only accentuates the stark angles, the redness in his eyes and the dilation of his pupils. His mouth his hanging open and his cheeks are tinted pink. Light reflects off the grease in his limp hair.

 

“C’mon,” Dean says, his voice hoarse with too many emotions to list, and he doesn’t give Sam time to answer, only grabs him by the wrist, his fingers looping all the way around it way too easily, and tugs him along behind him.

 

He doesn’t stop moving until he and Sam are in his motel room and the door is closed behind them. Sam stands near the door, his back to it, and Dean stands by the beds, staring at Sam, unable to look away and unable to fill the strained silence that widens the gap between them.

 

God, he just... he can't stop looking at him. He's Sam, he's really him, but at the same time he isn't at all.

 

He's lost twenty pounds at least. And all that California sun he'd been soaking up? Gone. The muscles Dean had imagined are nonexistent. In their stead are just bones, sharp under his skin. His shirt is too lose, it's that purple dog one Dean recognizes, but battered and torn to shit, showing his collarbones and shoulder bones. He jiggles in place like he just can't stay still, his fingers fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. He won't look at Dean. Apparently the puke stains in the carpet are more interesting.

 

What Dean can't stop staring at, though, are Sam's lips. A shiny smattering of pink lipgloss is smeared across them, and Dean can tell now that the blush on Sam's cheeks is artificial. This entire situation makes no sense to Dean, none at all, and he puzzles through it a million and one times before he comes up with an idea.

 

"Christo," he says, sitting down on the nearest bed to alleviate how his head spins and falls.

 

Sam finally looks up and his lips curl up into a smile that looks more like a snarl. His eyes are dark and shiny. "M'not a fucking demon, thanks," he rumbles quietly, biting his lip. He gives Dean one last weak glare before turning away, looking like a mouse thrown into a lion's den. He's shaking.

 

No matter the bitter words, Dean's heart sings at hearing Sam's voice again. It's the one thing that has remained the same, with its soft murmur and it does wonders to calm Dean down and pull him a little closer to sobriety. Sam's voice has dropped, Dean's happy to note, but that's the only thing he's happy about.

 

"Sorry," he croaks, flashing Sam a weak smile even though his little brother isn't looking at him. "I just... this ain't you, Sammy. What the hell is happening here, huh? You on a hunt?" The thought strikes Dean as he says it. He sits up taller. "You undercover?"

 

Sam scoffs, and Dean's stomach plummets back into ice. "You give me too much credit," he tells Dean, smiling blankly, like a mannequin, a shitty reproduction of Sam, nowhere near the original artwork. "This is exactly what it fucking looks like."

 

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. He licks his lips. Looks up at Sam, waits for some look, some message in brotherspeak to cue Dean into the ruse that's happening here. It never comes.

 

"Look," Sam starts again, shifting from foot to foot, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "you've seen me now. You know where I am. That I'm alive. Can I go now?"

 

Dean blinks up at him. Sam frowns back. The wall clock ticks away the moments behind them, the disbelief building in Dean with each twitch of the second hand.

 

"No," he finally manages, standing slowly, his knees cracking one at a time. "No, Sammy, it's been four years and we definitely have some catching up to do. Whaddaya say? Nice bed, late night TV, a warm meal in the morning? All you gotta do in exchange is talk to me. That sound appealing to you?"

 

Sam doesn't look happy about it, his face all pinched and pulled down, but he must hear the note of desperation in Dean's voice, 'cause he steps away from the door and slides his bag off of his shoulder. Dean counts it as a win, offering Sam another smile as Sam sighs and brushes past him to the other bed.

 

It's the little wins that really matter.

 

 

 

 

Dean doesn't sleep the entire night. He lays on his side, facing the door, listening to Sam toss and turn in the other bed. He'd never admit it to himself, not in a century, but he doesn't trust this Sam enough not to sneak out in the middle of the night and disappear to god knows where.

 

Sam finally falls asleep somewhere around four, his breaths slowing and evening out just like Dean remembers from his life Before, when things were okay and he had a Family. His vision blurs as he listens to the little sleepsounds Sam still makes and he lets his body relax. He forces himself to get up around six, moving around silently so he doesn't disrupt Sam's slumber. The kid looks like he really needs it.

 

He stews around for a couple of hours, apathetically watching porn on his laptop at the kitchenette table. He doesn't want to get breakfast while Sam's still asleep, just in case. He finds his eyes always straying back to the emaciated body of his little brother, looking like a corpse on the grainy motel coverlet.

 

Whatever the hell's happened to Sam, Dean's going to make it better. It's more than his job. It's his reason for living.

 

He's startled out of his thoughts by a tiny groan. He closes the laptop lid, looking over at Sam, who hauls himself upright and stretches his arms over his head, stretching. He blinks away bleariness and frowns at the room in puzzlement. It takes a moment before his eyes land on Dean and recognition sparks. His lips thin and he rubs at his eyes, yawning widely.

 

"Morning, sunshine," Dean deadpans, and his plea for normalcy is crushed when Sam frowns at him in that patented longsuffering glare.

 

"Can I change before the drilling starts?" Sam asks, not raising his voice at all. Subdued.

 

Dean worries that he's the cause. "Sure," he agrees awkwardly, leaning back in his chair. He watches Sam grab his bag and disappear into the bathroom. He listens to the sink running and the toilet flushing and a few muffled thumps before Sam comes back out again, looking a little more alert but that's no compliment. Dean's filled with a surge of maternal protectiveness and all he wants to do is put some meat on those bones, see those famous dimples again. God.

 

"We're gonna grab breakfast somewhere," Dean says, standing and grabbing the keys off the dresser. "And 'cause I'm nice, you can choose where."

 

Sam doesn't look impressed.

 

Inside the Impala, Dean fiddles with the cassettes and watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. For one brief moment, Sam's apathetic facade is pulled down as his hand quickly traces the chrome detailing on the dashboard. Dean can see the slight sheen in Sam's eyes and the way his adam's apple bobs. His hands run over the vinyl seating before he folds them tightly in his lap, staring straight ahead and blinking quickly.

 

Dean finally chooses a cassette and AC/DC starts playing over the speakers. As he turns the car around and heads into the center of town, he can't help but be grateful for seeing that moment of emotion coming from Sam, even if the emotion was closer to grief than anything better.

 

It's something, at least.

 

Sam silently points him to the nearest diner and Dean acquiesces, parking the car and getting out. Their doors slam in unison and Sam's hand trails over the hood of the car as he passes. Dean places a hand lightly between Sam's shoulder blades and leads him into the diner. It takes Sam a bit to realize Dean's touching him at all-- he'd started leaning into the warmth and comfort at his back without realizing. Once inside, he shrugs out of Dean's grasp and moves out of touching distance, cramming his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

 

Dean feels the distance between them like a physical blow to the gut. He clears his throat and pretends everything is fine, smiling cheekily at the waitress when she comes up to them.

 

When they're seated, Sam skims the menu with a bored look for a couple of seconds before letting it drop back on the scratched table. The waitress brings them water and leaves again, and Dean leans back in the booth, looking over at Sam evenly and trying his damndest to school his face into something less anguished.

 

"You wanna tell me what you're doing here?" Dean asks in a mild tone.

 

"And start from the beginning," he adds as Sam opens his mouth.

 

Sam sighs, sinking back into the cushions. He brushes his bangs away from his eyes- the kid could really use a haircut- and looks across the diner and away from Dean.

 

"Any day now," Dean presses, and he knows he's testing limits that didn't used to be there.

 

Sam glares up at him, but thankfully this time he doesn't take his eyes from Dean's. "You're not gonna like it," he says finally, his lips turning down as his hands play with the frayed edge of the menu. There's a sheen of sweat lining his temples. "You're not gonna like it at all."

 

Dean smirks. "Try me."

 

Sam shrugs, his hands stilling. "It's not some big long story, Dean. School was stressful. I wanted a break. You know what's good for stress? Marijuana. You know what's even better? Opiates."

 

"Opiates?" Dean parrots, unable to contain himself.

 

Sam nods at him, a twisted smile marring his face. "Got addicted. Spent all my money on drugs, got the hell out of Palo Alto. Too expensive. Came here, started hooking for cash. And then you found me."

 

A short laugh bubbles out of Dean before he can control himself. He regrets it the moment Sam's face sours further and he looks away from Dean, a bit of teeth showing as he snarls. "I'm sorry," Dean says, drawing Sam's narrowed eyes back to his face, "I just... I don't believe it. That's not you, Sammy, not the Sam I know."

 

Sam sighs like the conversation is something trivial and he has somewhere to be. And judging by the erratic jiggle of his knee, maybe he does have somewhere else he'd rather be. "I'm a hooker, Dean. And I'm not the Sam you knew. Not anymore."

 

Before Dean can say anything to that statement, the waitress is back, all falsely-cheery and smiley and Dean just wants to strangle her. The setting is so wrong for what's happening right now, the music too upbeat. It feels like some huge charade, a joke, something. Like a bunch of strippers will come popping out of the walls and Sam will cry _surprise, Dean!_ And, well.

 

In his silence Sam had bitten out both of their orders (Dean wishes he could feel happy about the fact Sam still remembers he likes extra onions) and sent a slightly-puzzled looking waitress scurrying away from their tiny little stormcloud.

 

Sam's looking out the window, and he's blinking quickly, his bottom lip jutting out as he tracks the cars rushing past. And despite the sunken eyes and already-dead look, he looks so fucking young and lost and Dean doesn't know what to do. He's always fixed Sam and he has no idea how to even start fixing this.

 

"Sammy, kiddo, please," he ends up croaking, reaching his hands across the table and grabbing Sam's. Sam jerks back like he's been shocked by Dean's touch, staring down at his hands like he expects to find them scalding and smoking.

 

"It's Sam," Sam tells him tiredly, tucking his hands into his lap and rolling his shoulders, over and over. "And look. I gotta go, okay? But it's been real nice, Dean. See you 'round."

 

"Uh-uh," Dean barks, standing up and blocking Sam's exit from the booth when he makes to leave. "You don't get to leave. Not like that. And I know for a fact you're fucking starving, 'kay? You might as well get a free meal out of this."

 

Sam looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't speak. His eyebrows draw together as he stares into Dean's eyes, looking for something. He appears to find it, a sigh escaping his lips as he falls back into the seat.

 

They don't speak for the rest of the wait, or even when the food arrives. Sam just digs in, eating everything like someone's going to come and steal it from him. He packs it in in a way old-Sam would've found appalling, not to mention it's not a girly salad or something lightweight, it's burgers, protein, sustenance.

 

When their plates are clean, Dean wastes no time in dropping some bills on the table and escorting Sam out, leading him around by the arm like he's a blind man. He opens the passenger-side door for Sam and watches him as he curls his frame into the car. Dean goes around and gets in behind the wheel, watching Sam shake and shiver the whole drive back to the motel.

 

The moment the car's in park, he bolts out and over to Sam's side, sticking close even when Sam hisses at him and roughly yanks his arm out of Dean's grasp. Sam seems repelled by Dean, so he uses it to his advantage and keeps trying to shuffle nearer and nearer until they're at their room, and Sam bites out some insult before opening the door himself and storming in.

 

Dean follows more slowly, gathering his thoughts, scrambling for some plan of attack, some way to bring Sam to his senses. Watching him dig through his bag, a vein twitching on his forehead, his eyes hooded and bright with anger, he can't help but think that it does look like Sam's been on something pretty hardcore. Sam huffs and starts throwing shirts out of his backpack, scrambling for something, but he can't find it.

 

He turns his anger back to Dean, and Dean sighs inwardly, gearing himself up, rolling his shoulders, just in case worse comes to worst.

 

"You can't stop me from leaving," Sam tells him, tossing the debris of his search back into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "No way in hell you can stop me."

 

"Wanna bet?" Dean retorts dryly. "You're like a hundred-and-fifty pounds soaking wet, dude. And you're going through withdrawal, aren't'ya? Mmm-hmm. Odds aren't in your favor on this one, kiddo."

 

"Don't treat me like a kid!" Sam yells, and moves toward him, arms stretched out like he intends to just brush Dean aside and go out to score some more drugs, probably using his ass.

 

Dean almost chokes on that thought alone. God, when did he start believing Sam, thinking of him like this? Like some junkie. Fucking fucking fuck no. Something else is wrong here. Dean saw it when Sam almost cried in the Impala, heard it every time Sam forced himself to act like Dean was a stranger. Sam might be on opiates, even if that makes Dean want to scream, but he's not fucking on them because school was too stressful.

 

It's not hard to beat Sam. Dean had been right about the weight guestimate: all he had to do was wrap his arms around Sam's crazy-skinny waist and toss him back onto the closest bed, and Sam was winded, weakly batting at Dean and telling him to get the fuck off or so help him.

 

"Sorry, Sammy," he says, making his voice sound as mock-apologetic as possible, "can't do that." Sam's hits hardly affect him, and Sam sweats more and more each time he tries to buck out from under Dean.

 

He eventually stops fighting, going completely limp under Dean. Dean knows that trick, though, from thousands of sparring sessions with his little brother, so he doesn't loosen up, meeting Sam's red-rimmed, fiery eyes head on and trying not to look away from the horrible, complete brokenness there.

 

"Gotta go," Sam whimpers, trying to turn the puppydog eyes on, but he doesn't quite remember how. They’re all skewed and dull. "Dean."

 

Dean's throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he'd rather die before rolling over on this one. "No, Sam. You're not going anywhere without me ever again, I swear to god."

 

Sam groans low in his throat and flops his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. His face is shiny in a thin, greasy sheen of sweat, his eyes sunken and pale. "I need them."

 

Dean shakes his head. "No, c'mon Sammy, no you don't."

 

"Stop calling me that," Sam whispers, staying still.

 

Dean risks a moment by letting go of Sam and ducking over to his bag, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and locking Sam's tiny wrist to the bedpost. Sam's eyes snap open, his arm jerking reflexively in his restraints. "What the fuck, Dean?"

 

"As much fun as it is to win fights against you, I'm not gonna watch you all day long," Dean says, using every ounce of his strength to keep his voice neutral, like this is no big deal, like he knows exactly what he's doing. "You're gonna get off the drugs, and you're gonna tell me the truth of what's happening here."

 

Sam rolls his eyes, slamming his head back against the headboard and shooting a glare Dean's way. "It's cute that you still see me as some sappy little geek boy, but I wasn't fucking lying. Take these off of me."

 

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. "Bull."

 

"Ugh," Sam spits. "Ugh, at least get me some water."

 

Dean watches him for a moment, his heartstrings pulling like he's a marionette and Sam's the puppetmaster. He nods, getting up, and grabs a water bottle, opening it up for Sam before handing it off to Sam. Sam practically chugs the thing, stopping only to breathe, before slamming the bottle down on the nightstand, panting.

 

Sam grimaces, rubbing his temple with his free hand. "You're a dick," he says quietly.

 

Dean ignores him and sits down at the kitchenette table, powering on his laptop. He looks up websites on drug abuse, on possible symptoms of STDs, ignoring the bile in the back of his throat. He shoots an email to Stanford's offices of admissions, inquiring after rescinded scholarships, practically begging them to let Sam back. Even though the night Sam left was the fucking worst night of his life, Sam deserves to be able to go back to that safe, cushioned life, no matter what he's gotten himself messed up in. If any one of the godforsaken Winchesters deserves a second chance, hell, even a third, it's Sam.

 

Sam passes out, sleeping fitfully, his brows pinched and his head twitching as he mutters plaintively under his breath. Dean hates seeing him like this, but he's confident it'll be over soon, that once Sam has the drugs out of his system, they'll talk for real, and maybe Dean'll make some more progress.

 

A bead of sweat drips down Sam's jaw and Dean gets up to wipe it down. He gets a washcloth from the bathroom and gently runs it across Sam's face as Sam tosses and turns underneath his ministrations.

 

"Please, no," Sam chokes out in his sleep, his voice rough and thin and tight, and god, he's shaking. "Please..."

 

Dean drops onto the bed beside him and rubs a hand up and down Sam's arm. "Just a dream," he murmurs, a phrase he told Sam a thousand times before he left for Stanford, "s'okay, Sammy."

 

Sam quiets a little, his mouth falling open, and Dean goes back to his research, pulling out a notepad and taking notes on what he reads. He considers calling Dad, even goes so far as to flip his phone open, but he decides against it. Dad doesn't need to know about any of this. Dean just has to make Sam better.

 

He needs to make him better.

 

 

 

 

Sam ripples like he's having a seizure in his sleep. Dean's research only gives him bad fucking news, web pages upon web pages of information that he so desperately wants to ignore, but he knows he can't.

 

Serious addicts can't go cold turkey. It'll kill them, lead them through a looping path of constant pain and delirium, before their bodies just give up. Serious addicts need to be helped by a professional facility, where they can be weaned off of their substance of choice in a safe atmosphere. Or what the fuck ever. Every site he visits sums up to those same words.

 

What he's doing now, it's killing Sam. If he wants to help Sam, he has to give him drugs.

 

What the hell. What the fucking fuck. He can hardly believe this is his life now. Still, he'd probably murder some puppies to save Sam, no matter how fucked up that is, and this sort of falls into the same category. If saving Sam means doping him up, it's better than the alternative.

 

Dean sighs, putting his elbows on the table and dropping his head into his hands. Sam's story makes sense with his appearance, with his symptoms, but it doesn't make sense with _Sam_. It's pretty much the antithesis of Sam. Sam would study for twenty-three hours a day just to stay at Stanford. Dean knows it. And Sam's certainly smart enough to keep his own there, among his geeky people. Sam's explanation doesn't make sense.

 

A dull light bulb flickers on and off above Dean's head and he opens a new tab, researching opiates, specifically. Even more specifically, why people take them in the first place, why they get addicted to them, what they do. That sort of shit.

 

Apparently, they're used to treat pain. The user develops a tolerance and needs more and more. They give a sort of high, an escape from the pain and a happy feeling. Some types of opiates are less hardcore than others, and withdrawal isn't fatal, just shitty as hell. Sam didn't specify what he was taking.

 

Dean knows why, though. Sam was in pain. Sam wouldn't take it for the high.

 

Dean glances over at his brother again, still tossing and shivering and sweating. Dean won't wake him. He'll wait. And when he does wake, Dean'll ambush him in the absolute kindest way possible, if he can manage it. Another thing the websites all say is that addicts need kindness and patience and understanding. Dean's capable of that, he thinks. Especially with Sammy.

 

He loses himself in the research, only pausing to reminisce about watching Sam do the same thing. He writes little sticky notes about things to remember: _keep him hydrated. Give him lower doses and make sure to lock up the drugs. Let him sleep. Be kind. Maybe check him in somewhere, gotta get fake insurance for that._ And, underlined three times, in capital letters: _HELP HIM._

 

He starts when he hears a gasp, spinning in his chair and standing up in one motion. He stares over at Sam, who is sitting up straight, his skin shiny and red with sweat. He's staring at nothing, his eyes wide and blank, his mouth hanging open.

 

"No," he moans like a plaintive child, "no, I won't do that. You can't make me. No." His eyes roll up into his head.

 

He starts trembling so hard Dean swears he's actually vibrating. "Sammy?" he asks, creeping closer, mentally cataloguing where every weapon in the room is, "Sammy, you okay?"

 

"Don't make me do it," Sam sobs, crying with white eyes, moving slowly from side to side like a pendulum, "I'm _not_. I'm not a monster."

 

Alright, Dean's heard enough. His heart is going to fucking implode if he has to listen to any more of Sam's keening. Does Sam think he's a monster? Who's forcing him to do what? Oh god. So many awful images rise up into Dean's brain and he pushes them away by rising into action, leaping forward and grabbing Sam by the shoulders. He sits on the edge of the bed and roughly shakes Sam, trying to look him in the eye but only a tiny ring of hazel is visible, no pupil. He shakes him even harder and Sam's head bounces back and forth like a dead man's. He can hear the handcuff rattling and scraping against the bedpost, trying to keep Sam back. Dean wants to vomit. "Sam, wake up!" he finally screams, his fingernails digging into Sam's overheated, pallid skin.

 

Sam screams hoarsely and his eyes slump shut. He goes limp in Dean's arms, falling forward, his chin bouncing against Dean's shoulder. Dean curls his arms around him and squeezes his eyes shut tight, running his hands up and down Sam's back, damp with sweat. He mumbles little comforting nothings into Sam's ear, rocking them back and forth, his chest and throat tight, his eyes burning. Sam doesn't move for several beats, and when he does, it's all at once, in a burst of energy, his fingers finding purchase in Dean's shirt and shoving him away.

 

Dean goes off easily, not one to poke a bear. He stands up, backing away, eyes locked on Sam's. Sam stares back, gasping for breath, his free hand curled into a fist in his lap. Dean sees a spot of blood where the cuff around the other one of his wrists has begun to chafe.

 

"What the hell was that?" Dean croaks, heart pounding. "I've never seen you have a dream like that."

 

"Just a nightmare," Sam whispers, but his eyes don't believe his mouth, so haunted and hollow. "That's all. Just a nightmare." Dean isn’t sure which of them Sam is trying to convince.

 

Dean wants to call bull, but it's a rare moment that Sam isn't angry, and he doesn't want to change that. He thinks of his notes. _Be kind. Help him._

 

"Do you want more water?" he asks instead, backing up and sitting down on the edge of his own bed. "I can grab some food, too."

 

Sam sighs. "Yeah," he says quietly, "and I gotta piss."

 

"I'll let you go, but then you're coming right back here," Dean says, using his Dad voice. "There are no windows in the bathroom. I'm going to clean the cut on your wrist, but then you gotta go right back to cuffs, Sammy. I'm sorry."

 

Sam's face is blank, devoid of emotion or expression. "Sure," he says.

 

Dean hopes to god he didn't break Sam's spirit, but maybe Sam's just trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He was always real good at doing that in pool and poker games.

 

Dean lopes forward, slipping the key out of seemingly nowhere. Sam's eyes hadn't tracked it, didn't know Dean had kept it in a pocket on the inside of his shirt. If he got too close with the key on him, Sam might be able to grab it without his notice. No, not even might, he definitely would. That's another thing Dean's gotta keep on his mind.

 

He unchains Sam and watches him go into the bathroom, listens to the sounds through the shitty motel door. Sam comes out a few minutes later looking a little more alive. Dean gets out the med kit and sits Sam down on the bed, cleaning out the long slice on Sam's wrist and padding it with shitloads of gauze, all the way around, so the cuff won't do any more damage. He re-cuffs Sam, who is silent and cooperative throughout all of Dean's ministrations.

 

"Okay," Dean says, clapping his hands together and standing up. He grabs Sam a water bottle from his duffel, opens it and hands it to Sam. Sam drinks it. Good. "I'll grab us some breakfast, how does that sound? You still like sugar on your pancakes?"

 

Sam doesn't respond. He stares down at his lap. He's shivering again, twitching every so often. Dean intends to soften Sam up with good ol' grub, but after, he has to ask the hard questions.

 

He doesn't have to think about that now.

 

"I'll be back in ten," Dean says, grabbing his coat and keys and heading out the door. He pauses, his hand on the cool metal of the scratched door knob. "Please... be here when I come back."

 

With that, he slips out, breathing in a much-needed burst of fresh air.

  


 

 

Dean comes back in eleven minutes, each second silently ticking down in his head, and each second over ten ramping his anxiety up with each mile left to drive back the motel that may or may not house his baby brother.

 

Sitting in the parking lot, he practices his smiles in the rearview mirror, taking a moment to calm his heart, his hands. Sam will still be there. He can do this. They'll both be okay. They'll be just fine. Sam will get back to school without a hitch, Dean will report back to Dad with only good news. Or something. Some fairytale ending, god, please.

 

He freezes his face into a brotherly, cheesy smile, making sure his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. He hefts the to-go bag in one hand and unlocks the door with the other, striding in and whistling a nameless tune. He tries not to collapse in relief when he sees Sam's legs still on the ratty motel bed, crossed at the ankle. Sam's awake, staring listlessly at him. His eyes look redder and shinier than before.

 

"Breakfast, Winchester style," he crows, plopping down onto his own bed, the springs creaking. He pulls out his french toast and bacon, setting them on the comforter beside him. For Sam, he got some fruit side thing with pineapples n' shit, and some sugared-to-hell pancakes. He sets everything down in Sam's lap, presses a plastic fork into Sam's free hand when he doesn't react.

 

"Coffee's in the car," he says, finding it harder with each passing moment to stay cheery. "You want some? I got you a bullshit vanilla latte thing."

 

Sam's eyes flick up to Dean and back down to his lap. He nods, his hair falling into his face.

 

Okay, good sign, Dean thinks. He's back in a flash with two steaming cups of joe. Sam holds out his hand, balancing his trays in his lap, and Dean gives him the creamy one.

 

They eat in silence. _They_ being the operative word. Sam's almost done with his pancakes, and he pecks at the fruit every so often. At least he's not cramming it in like it's the last meal he'll get for awhile, like he did at the diner. It might be progress. Or Dean's stupidly hopeful imagination.

 

Dean finishes before Sam. He stays quiet and still, waiting for Sam to eat his last few bites. Sam takes shaky sips from the coffee, almost spills it all over his lap a couple of times. With a pancake and four strawberries left, he pushes the trays off of his lap and to the side, leaning over and setting the empty coffee cup on the nightstand.

 

Dean stands, leaning forward to grab up all of Sam's shit. He hardly has any time to react.

 

One moment he's just fine, and the next his shirt is being yanked so hard he loses his balance, sprawling all over Sam's bony knees. A cold hand shoves its way down his shirt, feeling, groping for something.

 

Oh, mother _fucker_. Sam's trying to get at the key to the cuffs.

 

"It's not there anymore," Dean wheezes, his throat sore after being assaulted by Sam's elbows. "You won't find it."

 

Sam drops him with a huff, and Dean slumps to the ground, vision blurring. He stays on his hands and knees for a moment, gathering himself. A tear drops. No, fuck you. He mashes a hand against his eye. _This is so fucking stupid_ , he curses internally, unable to make himself angry at Sam. _What did either of us do to deserve this?_

 

He sits up, leaning back on his haunches. He stares up at Sam. Sam stares back. Dean doesn't blink, doesn't shy away. Just looks and looks and looks.

 

Sam breaks first, his face caving in on itself, his eyes scrunching up and his lip wobbling. He turns away from Dean, breathing raggedly, biting his lip. "I have to do it," he rasps, "you'd never understand."

 

"You never even try," Dean spits, unable to help himself, "you gotta trust me, Sammy. You can trust me, you know that. I swear to god I'm not mad. Just... talk to me."

 

Sam shakes his head, frowning and staring up at the ceiling. His face is splotchy. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. He shakes his head again, more roughly.

 

Dean sighs, slumping and falling back against the carpet. He stands up slowly, cleaning up the pancake and fruit debris from the carpeting. He sweeps everything onto trays and dumps it all into the trashcan in the corner. He washes his hands. He makes Sam wait.

 

When he's all finished, he paces in front of Sam, his steps measured and patient. He doesn't look at his brother. He can feel Sam's eyes digging into his back, making his skin itchy and tense.

 

Finally, he pauses, just out of reach of Sam. He looks down at him. "What are you on?" he asks.

 

Sam blinks. "I told you, opiates."

 

Dean shakes his head. "Not good enough. Codeine, Vicodin, Percocet?" He squints at Sam. "Oxycontin? Something else?"

 

Sam tries to glare, but he doesn't have enough fire in him. Drained it all out trying to snag Dean's damn keys.

 

Dean melts a little. "Sam, c'mon."

 

Sam looks away. "I guess it doesn't really matter," he mumbles.

 

Dean waits.

 

Sam fiddles with his fingers. "Mostly oxycontin," he mumbles, and shit, that's the heavier stuff. Not fun to come clean from. "And sometimes heroin."

 

 _Heroin_. The wind is immediately taken out of Dean's sails and he falls back onto his bed, all of his fight beaten out of him by three simple words. What the fuck. That's Dean's most common thought nowadays.

 

Dean stares at Sam's arm, at the spot where addicts usually tend to find veins to shoot up. Sam notices, the astute little bastard. He snorts. "I do it behind the knee," he says, "johns don't like seeing those marks."

 

Dean feels like he’s been slapped. He takes a shuddering breath. "Why, Sammy?" he asks because please, someone fucking tell him right the fuck now. "Is it the nightmares? Did you get hurt? Were you in the hospital?"

 

Sam gives him a tiny smile, nothing sweet, all dead eyes and bitterness. "You asked so you could get the drugs, didn't you? Now you know. Go get them."

 

Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I know you don't like me much right now. Hell, you might even hate me. But I'm just doing this to make you better. And I'm gonna, Sammy. I'm gonna make you better."

 

Sam blinks away tears, and he looks shaken. He looks down at his lap, his fingers jumping like they're being shocked with electricity. Dean had been too fucked up to notice it much earlier, but Sam's in a bad way, even paler and sweatier than before, a dead man walking.

 

At least he got through to him a little. He thinks he did.

 

"I'm gonna go score some," he tells Sam, "and then we'll just watch some T.V., huh? If you get hungry, you can send me out like a servant. Anything you want. We can go for drives in Baby."

 

Sam rolls his eyes and his sunken eyes sport the corpse of a smile. "Hurry up," he says, and Dean gives him another soft pat before turning and leaving, letting the tears fall as soon as he's out the door.

 

 

 

 

Dean ends up coming right back a few minutes later, 'cause as proud of his street life as he is, he actually has no fucking idea how to go about getting drugs. He'd imagined going out at midnight and seeing a dude in an alleyway. They'd speak in rough voices, only in slang, checking over their shoulders every so often.

 

But he can't exactly magick himself to a drug dealer-filled alleyway at midnight when it's actually almost lunch time, and Sam's getting worse and worse each moment.

 

So he goes back and asks Sam what the hell to do.

 

Sam's expecting him, and the kid actually cracks a genuine smile, scoffing at Dean's antics. He makes to grab the little complimentary notepad and pen off of the motel nightstand, but Dean gets there first and hands it to him. Sam balances the pad in his lap and writes with his free hand, tugging the cap off of the pen with his teeth.

 

He scribbles a few notes in his wobbly, uppercase scrawl before ripping off the sheet and holding it out.

 

"Name and address," Sam husks, coughing, as Dean takes the piece of paper. "Tell him Sammy sent you."

 

Dean tamps down the stark, protective outrage that flames in his core at the use of the nickname. For a brief moment, he gets an image of a sleazy, old guy with an unwitting wife, pulling Sam into his car and looping an arm around him, calling him "Sammy" with his rank breath.

 

Dean's fingers twitch and the note crumples up in his hand. Sam stares.

 

"That's it?" he asks when he finds his voice. "All I gotta say is Sammy, and he'll give it to me? He won't shoot me or whatever?"

 

Sam shrugs. "I mean, I don't know. I think it should be fine."

 

Dean throws his arms up. "Oh, nice, Sam. That makes me feel real safe."

 

Sam blinks up at him. "You don't go to a drug dealer to feel safe."

 

Dean can't come up with a response to that. "Fine, fine, fine. Anything else I should know?"

 

They talk what to expect and price and other little details for a couple of minutes. Sam almost falls asleep a couple of times, sagging and swaying before jolting upright, blinking and squinting. He's shivering almost constantly now, and Dean doesn't like noticing it. He likes pretending that everything's okay, and it's kinda hard to do when Sam's in such a hard way.

 

Dean has enough money left over from hustling to get Sam some Oxy. He pockets the paper, arms himself with a couple of hidden blades, charges his phone, and heads out, once again entreating Sam to stay put while he's gone. Not that he thinks Sam would ditch him now--not when he's giving Sam exactly what he fucking wants. He's gonna have to up security after this little trip. Sam might not have as much motivation to stick around with big brother after he's gotten a free score.

 

The thought is like a barbed fist curling around Dean's heart and squeezing tightly, but it's a thought he has to think. He has to cover every base, think of every option, even when they fucking suck. He just wishes Sam would tell him what's going on so he could fix it. The nightmare Sam had is always at the back of Dean's mind. Sam just needs to let him in.

 

The dealer's house is just a two-story McMansion in suburbia. It's got clean, white siding and a bright red door, and kids play in the yards on either side of it. Dean loiters outside for awhile, playing his nervousness off as scoping the place out. Once his cassette ends, he gets out, and goes right up to the front door and knocks. The door opens almost immediately and a pretty normal looking dude answers, wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and some jeans. He's on the phone with someone, but he waves Dean in, turning around and disappearing into the cool darkness of the house.

 

Dean trails after him, peering down halls and memorizing rooms and exits. The guy is in the living room, meandering back and forth in front of a tiny brick fireplace, talking deliveries and amounts of what Dean can reasonably guess are more opiates.

 

Dean sits down on a couch and makes himself comfortable, looking at the pictures of dogs and women and children on the mantle.

 

The man-Richard, Dean finally recalls- hangs up his phone and follows Dean's gaze.

 

"Pretty, aren't they? My youngest just entered middle school. She isn't grossed out by boys anymore. Terrifies me."

 

Dean smiles at that, feeling like a whale deposited into the desert, flopping around.

 

Richard drops into a chair opposite Dean. He sits with his legs spread out, his hands folded in his lap. A knee bounces. "Listen, guy, I don't have all day," he says, and Dean sits up straighter.

 

"Uh, yeah, right," he says, nodding, "um. Sammy sent me, that mean anything?"

 

Richard perks up. He looks Dean up and down, his lips curling into an almost feral smile. "Little prick finally got himself a pimp? Fucking finally, little shit was going to get himself killed."

 

It takes every single ounce of Dean's restraint and self-control to stop him from lunging at the douchebag and slitting his throat with one clean swipe. He puts on a smile instead, knowing he probably looks like a serial killer with it forcefully plastered across his face. "Yeah, well, he can hold his own."

 

Richard scoffs. "By throwing himself at any sleazebag who can pay? Sure, dude. You want the usual for him? It's 500 now. Limited supply."

 

Dean makes a mental note to come back and murder this guy after Sam's okay. Right now, though, he has to keep his priorities in order, no matter how twitchy he is, no matter how many veins are starting to pop out on his forehead. He nods his head sharply, his movements all rough and uncoordinated with the bubbling rage stewing inside of him.

 

Dick leaves, going through a back hallway, and Dean pulls out a roll of Benjamins, slipping out five of them and smoothing them out across his knee. He shrugs his jacket back so that when Richard comes back, he'll see the Beretta at his waist.

 

When Dickhead returns, he's got three orange prescription bottles in his hand. He sits back down across from Dean and sets them on the glass coffee table between them, sliding them across to Dean's side. Dean puts down his money and does the same. Richard holds them all up to the light and shrugs, seemingly satisfied. Dean pockets the bottles, the pills rattling around as he stands up.

 

Richard gets up after him and escorts him to the door. "Nice to meet the guy who could finally tame Sammy," he says, grinning like a python, "knowing him, I'll see you back soon."

 

Dean's smile turns deadly. "Sure," he says in a clipped tone, and gets the fuck out of there.

 

The drive back to the motel is made with white knuckles, his hands curled so tightly around the steering wheel that he can feel his pulse in each finger. He turns the music up high and focuses on the road lines. Anything else will make him scream and scream and scream.

 

The parking spot right in front of their door is free, and the engine is barely off by the time Dean's slipping out of the car and jamming the key into the motel door knob. He bursts in and Sam jolts, the handcuff rattling. Sam blinks slowly at him, his skin pink and sweaty, his movements erratic, like a broken automaton.

 

"Richard's a real fucking character," Dean grins, murder in his eyes. He sits down across from Sam and pulls out one of the bottles. Sam's eyes follow it like Dean's holding a pile of glittering treasure, dug up from the ocean floor.

 

"Yeah," Sam agrees, but he's definitely distracted. "You got them?"

 

"I got them," Dean confirms, "but we're going to have to talk first."

 

Sam's eyes are reluctant to leave the bottle in Dean's lap, but they finally tear away, narrowing and narrowing until they're mere slits. His lips thin.

 

"You're fucking serious?" he finally croaks, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "Dean, I need those."

 

"I know you do," Dean says patiently, "which is exactly why you're gonna tell me what I want to know."

 

Sam looks like he's about to cry. He looks like a child who has been denied dessert, his face going red and his chin jutting out, but along with that childish look is the desperation of a broken adult, the dark eyes of a person whose soul is older than their body. His eyes are dead when he stares at Dean, and his voice is dead when he says "Fuck you," too.

 

Dean clears his throat and looks away, blinking hard. "Why are you taking these pills, Sam?"

 

Sam snorts. "You won't believe me."

 

"And why not?"

 

Sam licks his lips and goes through a body-wracking tremor. When he's gotten control of himself, he meets Dean's stare evenly. "You'll think I'm crazy," he says, "and if you think I'm crazy, then you'll have to admit that there's no rational explanation behind any of this, and it will break you."

 

The determination and cognizance shining in Sam's eyes shakes Dean down to his core. "Then I won't think you're crazy," he says, his voice thin, "I'll believe you."

 

Sam doesn't look convinced. Dean waits.

 

Sam sighs and looks down at his hands. "It was little things, at first," he begins softly, so softly that Dean strains to hear him, leans forward, sitting on the edge of the edge of the bed.

 

"I'd dream that a friend of mine would get hurt, and they would," Sam says. "Becky broke her ankle a week and a half after I dreamed it happening. At that point, it was just a series of coincidences. I was trained not to ignore them, I know, but I just wanted to be normal." Sam's voice breaks.

 

He steels himself before continuing. "Then it started happening during the day. I'd get these splitting headaches, almost like migraines, and my nose would bleed, and I'd just... see things. Like hallucinations, but I knew they were real. I'd see people getting mugged, getting in car crashes, babies dying, and the headaches kept getting worse."

 

"I kept track of every incident in the news, if I could. They always happened after my visions, but they started happening sooner. When the baby died in her crib, it was only twelve hours after I passed out in biology after seeing it happen."

 

Sam tucks a lifeless, greasy strand of hair behind his ear, his cheeks flushed with color in stark contrast to the pale, sickly color of the rest of his skin. "I had a girlfriend, you know. Her name was Jess. She was the one who first made me go to the hospital for the migraines. They prescribed me some light pain meds, and they helped manage it. The visions fucked me up, but I ignored it. I should've taken it seriously, I know. I should've called you guys, should've done something. But I didn't want to be a freak. I've never wanted to be a freak."

 

A tear slides down Sam's cheek, and Dean doesn't notice it until Sam's discretely trying to wipe it away. Sam sniffs. "But then it happened to Jess."

 

"I... I saw her burn," Sam chokes, "on the ceiling, like with Mom. So I reapplied the salt lines and stayed home with her. I couldn't really do much, anyway... the headache from that one left me almost blind, and unable to move. I wasn't much use."

 

"I kept fading in and out of consciousness. And then the next thing I know is smoke, and Jess is above me, pinned to the ceiling, screaming, her insides hanging out of her like a fucking pinata, and flames just burst out of nowhere. And there's this laughing in my ears, so loud, right in my head, until I can't hear anything anymore. Next thing I wake up in the hospital, lone survivor."

 

Sam smiles with teary eyes at Dean. "Jess's parents didn't want to be hounded by the media. They're big tech people, got it all swept up under the rug, very hush-hush. There were only about thirty people at her wake, and some of those were just security. I could tell her parents blamed me for it. The official statement from the fire department says faulty wiring, but I know it wasn't. I know something happened to her, because I saw it."

 

"And it didn't stop there. I got more daytime visions, and they got more vivid and more painful until I thought I was dying. And they terrified me. I just wanted them to go away. A man with yellow eyes would come sometimes, and tell me he could fix me. He said all I had to do was go with him, and the pain would go away. But he was evil, Dean. He was so evil. I could sense it. So I said no, and the pain got worse, and I took more and more drugs and I just left."

 

Sam wipes at his eyes. "He tells me I'm his son," he says in a tear-thick voice, barely holding it together. "That I'm not human, that I'm destined to be with him. And the drugs make him go away. So I keep him away. Because if I didn't... I'd be a monster."

 

Sam deflates all at once, all of his passion and energy and emotion sapped out of him. He falls back against the bedpost with a rough clunk, his eyes falling closed, his breathing getting more and more labored until he's gasp-crying. "Just give me the pills," he begs, his voice cracking over every syllable. "I don't want to see him again. And you--you should let me go, don’t come near me. Death follows me around. Please. Dean, I--please."

 

Wordlessly, Dean gets up. He'd looked up dosages online. He shakes out three pills into his hand and offers them to Sam. Sam shakes his head. "Another, and a glass of water."

 

Dean follows Sam's orders, filling up a glass in the bathroom sink. He comes back and gives Sam the pills one at a time, letting him down them with gulps of water. When Sam's done, he shuffles down until he's laying down on the bed, his cuffed hand stretched above his head. Dean fumbles with the cuff until it doesn't look like it's cutting off Sam's circulation.

 

"Thank you," Sam whispers, eyes closed, looking more pink, and Dean knows he isn't talking about the cuff.

 

Dean rubs a hand up and down Sam's arm and gets up, grabbing his jacket. He slides his arms into it and leaves the motel room. He sits on the hood of his baby and puts his head in his hands. He doesn't know what to think. So he doesn't think.

 

Frame wracked by silent cries, cast in shadow by the setting sun, Dean prays for the first time in his life. He prays that Sam will be okay, and he lets his emotions wash over him for the first time in months as the sky goes from pink to blue to black.

 

When everything is drained out of his system, he heads inside, grateful to see Sam is sleeping.

 

He has a call to make.

  


 

 

Missouri picks up before the first ring. "Dean," she says, and her voice is tired and subdued. "I've been waiting for you to call."

 

"Yeah... hey," Dean says, coughing into his sleeve. He checks on Sam, sees him sleeping restlessly, and slips back outside and into his car. "I know we've never met in person, but uh-"

 

"Shh, boy," Missouri says, cutting him off. "I practically know you already. And I know you want to get down to business, so let's do that, okay? How is your brother?"

 

Her voice is soft and musical, lilting slightly at the ends of her sentence, and Dean can see her in his mind's eye. She has a calming effect on him, and he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "He's not good."

 

Missouri makes a sympathetic noise. Dean hears some sounds through the phone that remind him of a percolator. His stomach rumbles. He wishes he had some coffee of his own, good and black.

 

"And if I were here, I'd give you some," Missouri laughs. "Now, why don't you tell me more about Sam."

 

Dean swallows. "He has, um. He has visions, or at least he says so. First they were just dreams but he started gettin' 'em during the day. Bad shit that would come true. His girlfriend was killed the way our mom was."

 

"Oh, honey," Missouri says, "I'm so sorry. Have you ever seen him have a vision?"

 

"No, but I think I saw him get a nightmare. He said an evil man tries to get him to come with him. The visions give him migraines, he started takin' drugs for them and then panicked and ran. He's in a bad way right now."

 

"An evil man?" Missouri echoes, her voice hesitant. "A demon?"

 

"I think," Dean says, and stops, his throat feeling thick, his ears burning, "I think it's the thing that killed mom. I think it's talking to him."

 

"Dean," Missouri says, sounding like she's come to an important decision. "You and your brother and me have to have an important talk, okay? About that demon, about Sam. I think I can help him. Can you bring him here to Lawrence?"

 

"Lawrence? I--" Dean pales. Just a few days ago, he'd been willing to drive straight back to where he grew up so he could find Sammy, but now that he has him, the idea makes his heart race, his fear and weakness squeezing around it like a fist.

 

"It'll be fine, sweetheart," Missouri soothes, her voice like molasses and ambrosia. "I want to help Sam. But I have to see him to do that, okay? Can you bring him here?"

 

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Yes. Yeah. Yeah, I can."

 

"Good, that's good," Missouri hums. "I'll see you two then, okay, Dean? I'm looking forward to meeting Sam."

 

"Okay." Dean nods to himself, looks at his bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror. "Thank you."

 

"Shush," Missouri says. "Bye, Dean."

 

"Bye."

 

Dean pockets his phone and takes a few deep breaths. He gets out of the car and does a few laps around it, breathing in the night air and listening to the dull murmur of a distant highway, the erratic chirping of a lone cricket, the muffled sound of a T.V. playing a few rooms down.

 

The familiar atmosphere grounds him and he makes his way inside. Sam is awake, still laying in bed, but this time curled up on his side, facing the doorway. He blinks up at Dean with shiny eyes, his lip wobbling. He curls his knees closer to his chest, the cuffed hand twitching.

 

He looks so young.

 

"Dean," he says, his voice pitched high and thready, a low whine. "Can I have more?"

 

Dean plops down onto his own bed, sighing. "Sammy, it hasn't even been twelve hours," he tells him, and he thinks back to Richard in his nice house with his nice clothes and the way he spoke about Sam, like he was just a doll to fuck. He has trouble thinking about Sam's life before Dean found him, his stomach getting too sick for him to keep a train of thought regarding Sam's sex work for too long. His lip curls.

 

Sam gives a huge shuddery breath and Dean turns back to him, watching how Sam's face shutters to a halt and shuts down, his eyes squeezing shut. Sam presses his face into the pillow and lets out a sob, his thin shoulders wracking.

 

Dean bolts upright, his heart singing in alarm for Sam. "Woah, hey..." he says, unsure, and hovers about for a moment before sitting down on Sam's bedside, Sam's knees at his back. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder like he's touching cracked porcelain. "Sammy, it's okay."

 

Sam's body is still shaking when he turns his face up to Dean, and Dean can't even describe the heartbreak and desolation he sees written across Sam's features. No look like that should ever be on Sam's face. Sam's jaw, Sam's cheeks and nose and eyes and brow, they should all show innocence and understanding and love and selflessness, not any of this. Never this.

 

"That look on your face," Sam rasps, a tear shooting down his cheek. "I never wanted this. I never wanted you to look at me like I'm disgusting. I don't want to be a monster, Dean. I don't want you hate me. I don't want you to leave me." Sam's voice gets more and more strained the further he goes, his face turning red. His voice cracks across the last few syllables and he gasps raggedly, the sound of someone too exhausted to continue crying.

 

"Sam, I don't hate you," Dean says, swallowing thickly, his brows pushing together. He moves his hand up and down Sam's arm, rubbing his thumb in little circles on Sam's heated skin. "You're not disgusting. I get it, okay? I can't imagine what you've been through, but I get it. A normal person would've cracked way before you did. You're strong, Sammy. You can get through this."

 

"You don't know that for sure," Sam blinks tearily up at Dean, his eyes begging Dean to say otherwise.

 

Dean hates what the world has done to Sam. Anger and pure vitriol spill around inside him when he thinks of the thing that tore his family apart, that is now tearing Sam apart. He has to fix this. This can't go on any longer.

 

He wants to call his Dad so damn badly, like a scared kid running to get a parent. Yet something keeps holding him back. He loves his Dad, there's no question, but he doesn't want Dad to see Sam like this. After four years of separation, after the two of them had a screaming fight... Dad doesn't have a high opinion of sex workers. Dad thinks anything connected to the demon is evil.

 

A part of him wonders if Dad already knows.

 

He casts all his worries aside. It doesn't fucking matter. The only thing that matters is his little brother.

 

He pulls back the covers resting on Sam's waist and Sam's eyes narrow, but he doesn't move save his trembles, only watches Dean silently as Dean tosses off his jacket and climbs in beside Sam, pushing Sam's head under his chin and wrapping his arms around Sam. He reaches down and tosses the blankets back over the two of them.

 

He hears Sam's sharp intake of breath. A moment later, Sam's arm comes creeping around him, like a wary stray dog pulled toward the promise of food. "It's okay," Dean murmurs, breathing in the smell of Sam's hair, "this used'ta work when you had nightmares before, right? We'll fix it, Sam. I know it. Don't you worry about a thing."

 

Sam sniffles and presses his body against Dean, burying his nose in Dean's shoulder. He's not shaking quite so badly anymore, and his breathing gets less and less erratic with each passing moment.

 

"Thank you," Sam croaks, and Dean's heart warms in his chest.

 

"No problem," Dean whispers back. "Just get some sleep, Sammy. We're gonna go see a friend in the morning, okay? I've got a plan. Just rest. It'll all be better when you wake up."

 

Sam murmurs something against Dean's skin and goes boneless, trusting Dean's arms to keep him protected through the night. If anything's gonna try to come at Sam, it's gonna have to go through Dean first. Dean wishes he could fight with Sam's nightmares one-on-one, or hell, go up against the yellow-eyed bastard himself, no matter the consequences.

 

He listens to Sam's breaths going even and closes his eyes but doesn't allow himself to sleep. He's on guard duty protecting the most precious thing in his messed up little life.

 

No one fucks with what's Dean's.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam's a little pinker in the morning, his eyes a little more aware. Dean takes off the cuff to replace the bandages around his wrists. He finishes wrapping the wrist and picks up the cuffs from the nightstand, still warm from Sam's skin. He turns and puts them back into his duffel, making sure every action is clearly in Sam's line of sight.

 

Sam stays put on the bed, his hand up on the pillow as if the cuff is still there, hidden from sight. Sam's not usually obedient like this, like a patient, well-trained dog--Dean actually thinks "Sam" and "obedient" are antonyms, and the little puppy look Sam gives him right now makes him purse his lips and walk back over to Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

Sam doesn't trust himself, that much is clear. But Dean does. He wants Sam to know that.

 

"I don't think you need those anymore, do you?" he asks, looking Sam in the eye.

 

Sam frowns, his eyes shooting between the bag and Dean's eyes. "Are you sure?" he finally asks, voice just barely above a whisper. He tentatively puts his injured hand in his lap, still looking up at Dean like Dean's got all the answers.

 

Dean nods. He doesn't trust his voice not to break, but he speaks anyway. "I'm sure," he murmurs, and steps away. He continues packing. He makes a point to turn his back to Sam, to not glance over his shoulder at him. He's proving that he trusts Sam. He doesn't have to watch his every move. Sam is his own free man, addict or not. Now that Dean knows the whole story and knows Sam wants help, he doesn't think Sam will hurl insults at him or leave for a quick fix.

 

They're both in too deep.

 

It takes a few solid minutes but Sam finally gets up and starts packing his own bag. He only has a backpack with a few changes of clothes, so it doesn't take long. He stands with his backpack slung over his shoulder, hovering near the motel door and watching Dean grab up various supplies from all over the room.

 

"You need help?" Sam asks.

 

Dean shakes his head. "I'll be done in a minute," he says, tugging the med kit out from under the bathroom sink. "Can you put some bags in the car, though?"

 

"I-" Sam stops, wetting his lips. "Okay."

 

Sam opens the door in little precise movements and slips outside. The door shuts behind him.

 

Dean's legs want to scramble outside and Dean's mouth wants to yell after Sam, but he refuses both of them and packs the final bag, staring out at the motel room for one last moment.

 

The place isn't anywhere special, but no motel is. It's one of millions he's stayed in, a reproduction, similar in a billion different ways.

 

But here is where he got Sam back. Here is where he almost lost him.

 

He nods at the room. A little acknowledgement that no one else will ever see.

 

When he makes it outside, he sees Sam sitting in the passenger seat, reverently tracing the spines of the cassettes in his lap, and something in Dean's heart finishes healing, making him feel a little closer to whole again.

 

 

 

 

 

It's only a few hours to Lawrence. All Dean's told Sam about where they're going is that they're off to see a friend of Dad's in Lawrence, and Sam is understandably on edge. His jaw is tight and his eyes are sharp. The only things that gives away his true condition are the sweat beading around his neck, and the way his hand trembles like a leaf in the wind , gripped tight around the door handle.

 

Dean checks his watch. "Think you can make it a few hours before I give you some more?"

 

Sam's eyes widen. "Yeah, y-yeah, I'm okay."

 

Bullshit.

 

Dean eyes the milemarker they pass, poking out askew in the flat plains of Kansas. "Not much longer now, not by our standards."

 

"Okay." Sam's voice is clipped. "This friend of Dad's... how can she help?"

 

Dean thinks over his response for several seconds, Blue Oyster Cult filling up the silence. "She's a psychic," he admits, "and she knows a lot about the demon, about the work Dad's been doing. She said she can help."

 

"And you trust her?" Sam asks.

 

Dean grunts the affirmative. "If Dad says she's the real deal, so do I."

 

Sam stares out the passenger side window, his jaw ticking. Every time Dean risks a glance over at him, he sees cogs turning behind Sam's eyes. The kid's brain never shuts up.

 

It's a good, familiar sight. It makes everything a little more tolerable.

 

"Do you think she has dreams like I do?" Sam's voice is quiet.

 

The question catches Dean off guard. "I don't know," he admits, "I don't know anything about psychic stuff, Sammy. But she does, alright? S'why we're seein' her."

 

"Alright, alright, no more questions," Sam says.

 

Dean grins at him.

 

The silence they lapse into is just like every other backseat moment he shared with Sam before he left for Stanford. Road moments can't always be filled up with talk and jokes, and sometimes, the low song of the pavement under the wheels of Baby is more comforting than any two-story suburban home could ever be.

 

They have no need to speak.

 

It's been around four or five songs when Sam makes a choked, gasping noise, his hands flying to his temples.

 

Dean almost drives them off the highway in his alarm, turning to face his brother, righting the wheel as he does. "Sam, you okay? Sam?"

 

"God... _no_ ," Sam moans, his eyes scrunching up tight. "Not right now, not again."

 

Shit, a motherfucking vision. Dean was always curious about them, about proof, but he'd take doubt any day over seeing one in the flesh.

 

He watches Sam more than he watches the road. It's terrifying how fast his brother disintegrates before his eyes. A long strand of dark blood leaks out of Sam's nose.

 

Sam screams like an animal.

 

Dean cusses and roughly pulls the Impala to the side of the road, yanking the key out of the ignition. He devotes all of his attention to Sam, who has pulled his legs up onto the seat and is pressing himself into the corner, whimpering, bleeding from the nose and ears.

 

Dean has no fucking idea what to do. He doesn't know how he can save Sam from this, if he's able to at all. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

Sam's spine goes rigid and his eyes go grey and murky-cloudy, like a blind man's. Sam's eyes flick back and forth, staring right through Dean at something only Sam can see. His mouth falls open, leaking a mix of saliva and blood.

 

Dean reaches forward and shakes Sam by the shoulders. "You're scaring me," he cries, his own eyes wide and wild. "Stop it, Sammy, stop it."

 

Sam gurgles and sways, hardly breathing, enraptured in whatever horrific stupid bullshit the demon has thrown at him this time.

 

Dean shakes him again. "Sam. Sam. Sam, c'mon, look at me. Can you hear me, buddy? Hey, look at me. You in there, Sam? _Sam?_ "

 

Sam doesn't blink, his eyes going bright and red-rimmed. Dean reaches out and carefully shuts Sam's eyes for him, brushing his thumbs over the delicate lids.

 

Sam's eyes tilt right back open. The blood isn't slowing down. It's getting all over Sam's shirt and pants. Dean wonders if Jessica ever had to cart Sam to the hospital for blood loss. He doesn't know her, but he's simultaneously furiously jealous of her and so damn grateful Sam had her.

 

Sam makes a high, keening noise, like a deer in death throes. His eyes clear, fog dissipating, and he slumps forward into Dean's waiting arms. Dean curls Sam up against his chest, holding back the sob rising in his chest.

 

"Sam, you there?" Dean rasps, rocking Sam back and forth. "You back yet, Sammy?"

 

Sam doesn't respond, and Dean closes his eyes and clings to his baby brother, a shuddering breath slipping past his lips.

 

He sits there for ages. Sam is a dead, cold weight in his lap, something Dean never ever wanted to experience. He cooes to him periodically, pleading with his brother for a response, and never granted one.

 

Dean cries into Sam's shoulder and wishes his Dad were here to save both of them.

 

He doesn't know how long he sits there, his legs falling asleep, before a slight twitch and sighed exhale in his arms shoots him from half-awake, twilight misery to fully-fledged awareness.

 

"Sam?" he barks, shifting and straightening, loosening his hold on his brother. "You here?"

 

Sam groans, his hands reaching up and grabbing for purchase in Dean's shirt like a feeble old man trying to control his arthritic hands. Dean helps Sam up, reaching under Sam's armpits and hauling him up, setting him back against the door of the Impala, propping him in an upright position.

 

He’s alive. He’s okay. He’s got dried blood caking his face and he looks worse than dead, but he’s fucking breathing, thank fucking--

 

Dean curls his hands around Sam’s jaw, feeling for his pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there, and it gets stronger each second he cradles Sam’s head. His heart feels like it’s going to fucking explode and he’s still crying as he presses a kiss to Sam’s lips, holding it there, squeezing Sam’s clammy face with his hands.

 

He pulls back, his own heart set to racing. He didn’t even think. He just. Shit. He still can’t think. He needs to focus on Sam, who is still half-limp like a ragdoll against the door.

 

Sam's head lolls for a moment before he finds the strength to raise it, blinking slowly, his eyes never opening further than a squint. Dean imagines that with the migraine Sam's probably sporting, sunlight is hell. Dean reaches over and pops open the glove compartment, taking out his pair of sunglasses and sliding them onto Sam's slender face. He'd pass for hungover in public now, Dean muses.

 

"Sam?" Dean prods again, talking very quietly, keeping Sam's fragile head in mind, "I need you to tell me how you are."

 

"S'not good," Sam slurs after a pregnant pause, barely a whisper, putting a pin dropping to shame. "I need it, D'n, fuck, c'n hardly see."

 

Dean's heart races around a little harder in his chest. He can't imagine how much pain Sam must be in if the migraine is fucking with his vision, his speech. As much as he fucking hates it, he leaves Sam for a moment, going around to the trunk and reaching into the pocket sewn into the lining of his biggest duffel, pulling out a bottle of Oxycontin. He shakes out four pills, grabs a water bottle from the duffel, and slips back into the driver's seat, wrapping an arm around Sam's hunched shoulders. His anxiety pulls back just a fraction the moment he touches Sammy again.

 

"I think you need this," Dean sighs, looking at the cars passing them by as he drops the pills in Sam's palm, hot and slick with sweat. All those families going to and from place to place in happy little safe lives, completely unaware of the devastating tragedy unfolding in the car on the shoulder. Dean's not bitter, nope.

 

Sam taps him on the arm with his pointer finger. Dean turns to look down at Sam's purpled, sleepless-looking eyes, aimed at the water bottle. Right. Dean hands it over.

 

"Need any help?" he asks, watching Sam's fingers curl lethargically around the bottle.

 

Sam shakes his head. He takes all four at once. Dean dimly remembers reading that that was a shit idea, but it can't be anything worse than Sam's fucking visions, so he lets it slide. Sam downs about a third of the water bottle before capping it and dropping it to the floor.

 

Sam goes boneless again, but this time it doesn't scare Dean. Sam closes his eyes and shudders, his face still set in pain even with the pills kicking in and the sunglasses blocking out some light.

 

Dean flips down the sun visors. It does a little bit more good. Better than nothing.

 

Dean eyes Sam, who is small enough to curl up on the seat and have leagues of space between them. "We need to get food in you," Dean murmurs, more to himself than to Sam. "We'll eat at Missouri's. Maybe she has a remedy for your head."

 

Sam hums something tuneless and Dean doesn't want to move, doesn't want to do anything, really, save for look after Sam, and hold him close, but Missouri might have answers, a cure, anything.

 

When the engine turns over, Sam seems to sag further back against the seat, and Dean does his best to pretend he didn't see, pulling back onto the highway.

 

It takes less time than he'd dreaded to get to Lawrence, and even though he recognizes nothing, a cold, chilling feeling settles in his bones, almost like the instinctual gut wrench he gets when spirits appear. He cruises through town, stopping for gas. He's low on cash again. There's no time to get any more. Maybe Missouri knows a place with cheap nightly rates. He tries not to constantly think about how fucked they are, but they're pretty fucking fucked.

 

Missouri's home is residential, nestled among hundreds of semi-identical two-story homes built in the sixties, and it takes him awhile to navigate the grids of streets, driving slow and steady among people walking dogs, bunched up families, gaggles of children.

 

Missouri's house is nothing special, slightly homey, a few streets down from their childhood home. Dean avoids it, taking a circular route to their destination. He thinks their arrival should be accompanied by golden rays of light and cherubs singing, that Missouri's house should be falling apart and dark and spooky, covered in crystals and windchimes, but it's just... domestic. There's a black cat on the porch and a newspaper lying out on the driveway.

 

Dean tells Sam to stay put and puts the car in park, running around to Sam's side and opening the door for him. He helps Sam up, looping an arm around Sam's waist. Sam leans against him, resting his head against Dean's shoulder, and something in Dean's chest tugs. He wants to keep Sam there forever. He wants to hold Sam against his body and never let go.

 

It scares him.

 

He distracts himself by moving them up the sidewalk and to the door. They've just barely scaled the two steps leading onto the porch when the front door swings wide open, and a women garbed in a colorful dress and scarves bursts through, earrings clacking and tinkling as she greets them.

 

"Sam and Dean," she says in that peculiar, feather-light voice, her dark eyes sparkling with knowledge, "please, come right in, boys. I've got tea going."

 

Dean has no time to say a greeting or a thank you before she disappears inside. He has no choice but to follow after, noting the latin etched into the doorframe as he passes under. Something in his chest loosens, just a little.

 

Missouri leads them to a dark, cosy living room. She's shut all the curtains, blocking out all the light for Sam. Giant, cushy couches line the room, a tray with teacups and cookies sitting on a coffee table in the center. Black candles flicker and waver on side tables.

 

Dean sets Sam down on the cushiest couch, pressing himself right up against his brother. He keeps an arm wrapped around Sam, using the other to grab a chocolate chip cookie from the tray to snack on. Missouri sits down across from them, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

 

"The tea's Ginger Root," Missouri says. "with a little something special. Should help your head just a bit, Sam."

 

Dean grabs a cup off of the tray and holds it up to Sam's lips. Sam huffs and grabs the cup, peeling Dean's fingers away from the porcelain. Sam takes a sip, his eyebrows going up. He drinks more.

 

Dean notices Missouri watching him with a strange look in her eyes, and he stops watching Sam's every move, his cheeks burning. He doesn't want her to think poorly of him. He's afraid of getting on her bad side, having what might be Sam's only chance torn away from them.

 

"Oh, hush," Missouri says, rolling her eyes. "Dean, you worry too much. You boys are like family to me. John is a dear friend. I'll do anything I can to help you, as long as you don't put your feet up on my nice new table."

 

Dean plants his heels back down on the floor. How the fuck?

 

"That's my fun little parlor trick," Missouri explains, smiling and tapping her temple. "I can feel emotions, thoughts, ideas in other people's minds. It's what keeps me in business."

 

"Oh." Dean doesn't know what to think about that.

 

Missouri laughs. "Why don't you two finish your tea and then we can talk shop. If Sam wants to rest, I've got a guest room upstairs that's guaranteed to give him some sleep."

 

"Thank you," Sam speaks up, coughing slightly. "If it's okay, I'd like to hear what you have to say and then pass out."

 

Missouri grins at Sam like everyone in the whole world did when Sam was four, mop-haired and chubby-cheeked, the cutest kid on the block. "Of course, sweetheart," she says, and Sam takes another sip from his tea, the lines disappearing from his forehead.

 

The silence curls around them like a warm blanket, and Dean has no doubt that it is somehow Missouri’s doing. Sam's hand shakes as he grabs for a cookie, so Dean stacks a little pile of them on Sam's plate, right up against the side of the teacup. Sam shakes his head, making a little exasperated noise, but he's smiling.

 

With the concentration and speed of an Olympic runner, Dean tamps down the wild urge inside him to kiss Sam senseless, to memorize and preserve the feel of that smile on his own lips.

 

Sam's knee knocks against Dean's and Dean looks up, biting his lip.

 

"You gonna eat that?" Sam whispers, gesturing to the half-eaten cookie hanging forgotten between Dean's fingers. They're damn good cookies. Dean could eat a thousand of them. He hands it to Sam, watching as his throat column works when he swallows.

 

It's good that he's eating, Dean thinks, even if it's sugary temptation. If Missouri ever made any with nuts, Sam would be all over that like the loser he is.

 

"I'll keep that in mind," Missouri says at the same time Sam leans forward to set his empty teacup back on the tray. His eyes flash up at Missouri, obviously puzzled. Dean flushes under the strange, invisible mental spotlight.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she continues, "I can see that Dean doesn't really like me addressing his thoughts. I get a little lost in it sometimes."

 

"It's okay," Sam says, pausing to shudder through a wracking fit of coughs that puts Dean's heart progressively further into his throat. "I know what it's like to be lost in your head."

 

"So, Missouri," Dean says, clearing his throat, "can you help Sam?"

 

Missouri tsks at him and sets down her own cup. "All in time, boy," she says, "just let me clean this mess up." Dean watches as she scurries around the room, unable to screen the indignancy in his thoughts. He hopes she isn't listening, because his thoughts are pretty much an impatient, bratty child demanding attention. With a side of Sam-addiction. He can't help it. Sam is at risk. It's his natural response.

 

When she returns, she's holding a small wooden box in her hands with cursive text burnt into the lid in a language Dean doesn't recognize. She hands it to Sam, who takes it gingerly, setting it down in his lap and staring down at it wordlessly.

 

Dean fucking hates suspense. "What is it?"

 

Missouri gestures toward Sam. "Why don't you open it."

 

Sam looks at her, his brows drawing together. He looks down at the box, running a finger over the script on the top. After a moment of hesitation, he flips the lid open, pulling a corded necklace out from the box. A dark blue gemstone of some kind hangs as a pendant, with flecks of bright green reflecting the low lighting in the room. Sam holds the stone in his palm, the cord hanging over his fingers. "I--what's this for?"

 

"You are a giant neon sign right now, honey," Missouri says. "All psychics can sense each other, and your ability, pain, and emotion are broadcasting for miles. When your talents kicked in, I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear you all the way out in California. I don't think we have the time to give you any serious training in controlling your psychic signature, so that beauty there is our other option. It muffles you. This way, other psychics and the demon won't know where you are at all times."

 

Sam's eyes go huge and he swallows. "He's known where I am this whole time? Because of my visions?"

 

Missouri nods, folding her hands in her lap. "Your daddy wanted to tell you all of this, but he's caught up at the moment, hunting the demon. It's a lot, but you both need to hear it."

 

Sam lets out a breath and Dean slings an arm around him. "Start from the beginning," he says, feeling Sam relax under his touch.

 

Missouri tells Dean about how John first came to her in 1983, confused and grieving, struggling to believe what his eyes had seen in Sam's nursery in that awful November. She helped calm his rage, explaining that not all that was supernatural was evil, like herself. She visited the house, feeling the signature of evil that lingered there, a rotten, acrid stench. She told him to start a journal documenting his learnings and progress, and kept up with him as he met new people, killed monsters, and criss-crossed the country, looking for a sulfuric needle in a haystack.

 

Then, all at once, a few months ago, psychic signatures starting ringing all over the country, in Palo Alto, and in other big cities. Some signals cut out quickly, others faded, and some persisted, like a siren, like Sam. Missouri helped John track down another kid, who could kill others with a single touch. She was born in the same year as Sam, and her mother died when she was six months old.

 

That set John into a terrified fervor, going off on his own and leaving Dean to continue hunting monsters, unaware that Sam could be in danger. John was convinced the demon was watching him, and believed the fewer people that knew his plans, the better.

 

John captured a demon working under the Thing that Killed Mom and tortured it for information. The demon spoke of a coming war, and how they were forming an army of talented human children to be on the front lines. The demon somehow has power over the psychic kids, Missouri says, and she thinks it's because their psychic talents make them susceptible. He can visit them in dreams, hurt them through a psychic link... anything it takes, to have them on his side.

 

"We don't know what the war is," Missouri finishes, "or really, how he discovers the children, and how he intends to use them. But you're one of them, Sam. You've had dreams of a man with yellow eyes, right? You can't listen to him. You can't let him get to you. He might promise to make you stronger, but it comes at a terrible cost."

 

Dean's mouth gapes, his stomach swimming with nausea. It's all too much to take in at once, and the amount of things they don't know... it's terrifying. The demon is probably three steps ahead of them, dancing around them with glee, watching them stumble after old trails. He can't think of anything to say. There's nothing to say to make it better. He wanted to believe so badly that Sam could've been hallucinating, or cursed, but Missouri's knowledge of his dad is proof that all of this is too real. Far too real.

 

"But it's so hard," Sam chokes out, blinking back tears. His body dissolves into one massive shudder, and Sam wipes at his face with a twitching hand. "It hurts, Missouri, and he keeps promising he'll keep Dean and Dad safe. I just want it to be over."

 

Sam's voice cracks and then he's bending in half, pressing his face into his hands and breathing raggedly in little half-sobs. Dean runs his hand up and down Sam's shoulder, tightening his arm around his little brother. Now would be the perfect time to promise Sam it'll get better, that Dean will keep him safe, but Dean has already failed there once, and he's not prepared to make false promises to Sam.

 

"Just try out the necklace, okay, sweetie?" Missouri says, so soft, grounding them both back to Earth. "It won't get rid of the visions, but it should help some with the nightmares. I can help with the rest. I can teach you how to manage it, Sam. You are so strong. You're so colorful, bursting with energy and power. I think with the right teaching, you'll be stronger than him. You'll be able to fight him."

 

Sam raises his head, peering at Missouri through crumped up, shiny eyes. "You can't mean that."

 

"I do." Missouri's voice is full of excitement, and she leans on the edge of her seat, her eyes bright. "Your daddy's not the only hunter fighting this war, boys. Others are out there, other people like me, too. And we're gonna save all you kids. We're gonna teach you how to hold your own."

 

Her confidence is contagious, and something about her aura makes her so completely matronly and trustworthy that Dean can't find any of his usual cynicism within his soul.

 

He believes her.

 

"You up to that, Sammy?" he asks. "You ready to be the next Sabrina the Teenage Witch?"

 

Sam bats him, but his energy is so sapped that it's a gentle graze. "Shut it," Sam wheezes, and Dean notices with a jolt how heavily Sam is leaning on him, how pale he is. "I'll do it."

 

"Fantastic!" Missouri crows, standing. "Now, no funny business. You're both going to bed right now."

 

Dean doesn't argue. He pries the necklace from Sam's baby-bird grasp and pulls the cord over Sam's head, smoothing Sam's hair down after he gets it centered over Sam's chest. He gives Missouri the box back. He turns to Sam, sliding his arm down to Sam's waist. He stands them both up, doing most of the legwork up the stairs to Missouri's spare room.

 

Sam is asleep within moments of being undressed and tucked into the bed. There's a knock at the door and Dean turns to see Missouri standing there, holding a pile of quilts.

 

"It gets mighty cold in here, most nights," Missouri says. "Thought he could use these."

 

Dean barely knows Missouri, but his heart is already almost bursting with all the gratitude he has for her. "Thank you," he sighs, slightly choked, taking the pile and carefully spreading them over Sam, being mindful not to wake him.

 

"Night, boys," Missouri whispers, shutting the door with a soft click.

 

There's only one bed in the room, and even if there hadn't been, Dean still would have curled around Sam, pulling him close to his chest. He does his nightly vigil, watching the darkness close in around them as the sun sinks below the horizon.

 

He kisses the crown of Sam's head. Sam shivers in his sleep, and Dean pets Sam's hip, feeling Sam settle underneath him.

 

Dean doesn't care what it takes. They're both going to fight this, tooth and nail. Dean's gonna get his Sammy back, or he's gonna die trying.

  


 

 

When Dean wakes up, he's cold.

 

He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, blinking and looking around the cramped room.

 

He finally spots Sam, crouched on the floor, shaking like he's got pneumonia. He's shoving t-shirts into a duffel, smashing them down in disorganized piles, reckless in a way that isn't synonymous with Sam Winchester.

 

"Dude," Dean says, now fully awake, "what the hell are you doing?"

 

"We have to go," Sam says, voice cut off and clipped because of the chattering of his teeth. "Someone near here is gonna get hurt because of the demon and I have t-to stop it."

 

"The vision," Dean says, getting out of bed, "is that what you saw?"

 

Sam nods his head. He keeps at his work, tossing one of his favorite hoodies into the crammed duffel and zipping it up. "A girl. A little girl. That demon's gonna hurt her. He knows we're here."

 

"Sammy... stop," Dean walks over and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shrugs it off. "It's gotta be a trap."

 

"Doesn't matter," Sam bites out, his voice thin. "We gotta stop it."

 

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean makes a grab for Sam's duffel and Sam hardly puts up a fight. "You're in no shape to be hunting, and definitely not healthy enough to take on the damn demon, Sam. You're not going anywhere."

 

"But she's going to die, Dean," Sam cranes his neck to stare pleadingly at him, his eyes wide and shining.

 

"Sam--"

 

Sam's standing up and turning to Dean in a whirl, grabbing Dean by his shirt. "She's going to die because of me," Sam's voice cracks. "because I didn't stop it. And she won't be the first, Dean. How many people am I gonna watch die? Not her, Dean. Please, not her." He sniffles, rubbing angrily at his eyes. "Not her."

 

"Okay. Okay," Dean says, holding up his hands. "Say we somehow have a shot. We don't even have any fucking gas money, Sam, let alone enough to drive to another city and get a motel. We don't have anything-"

 

"Then I'll let someone fuck me!" Sam roars, yanking the duffel out of Dean's hands. "It doesn't fucking matter, I don't matter, we just have to help her, Dean, I-"

 

"You stop right there." Dean's voice is low and dangerous, humming with emotion, and Sam actually obeys, freezing before him and shrinking at Dean's tone. "You aren't letting another guy near you, you hear me? They're all scum. They don't compare to you, Sammy. You. Fucking. _Matter_. You can't just toss yourself in the line of fire or sacrifice yourself for some damn greater good. I won't let it happen, okay? Not to you. I'm only gonna say this once. You mean too much to me for me to ever let you do that. I know it sucks, kiddo, but you've gotta calm down. You gotta think about yourself, just this once, huh? Hell, you're still going through withdrawal. Just... please."

 

Dean sits down on the bed, hunched over, winded all at once. Sam stands before him, wavering on his feet. Dean sighs and Sam drops the duffel, sitting down next to Dean, their thighs brushing. "Then what do we do?" he whispers, and christ, he sounds so lost. _Damn this kid,_ Dean thinks, but he doesn’t really mean it, _damn how far gone I am for him._ "How do we help her?"

 

"Someone else can," Dean sounds, trying to sound as certain as possible even though he doesn't really believe himself. "We can call Pastor Jim, he's got a great phonebook of hunters. Someone will come. Someone will help. She'll be okay. You just gotta focus on yourself. You can't be beatin' yourself down all the time. It's suicide."

 

"I know," Sam smiles in pain. "I just fell so far down that I couldn't get back up, and then it was easier just to give up."

 

"Well, I'm here now," Dean says, clapping Sam on the back, "so no more of that, 'kay? If you think you're deep down somewhere... well, I've got a cool jetpack."

 

Sam snorts. "Real poetic, Dean. Beautiful."

 

"Ugh, shut up. We have this big giant moment and you have to make fun of me, don't you? Thanks."

 

"I wasn't making fun," Sam says, "I'm sure you're being seriously considered for a Nobel Prize in literature. Definitely"

 

"Oh my god." Dean stands up. "You're absolutely awful when you think you're funny."

 

Sam laughs, but Dean sees the hollowness in Sam's eyes and frowns. "Do you... do you need some pills?" he asks, and hates how fantastically fast the mood crashes into the ground.

 

Sam rolls his shoulders. "Just one for now," he admits, "I don't want to be all zoned out with Missouri."

 

Dean clicks his tongue, putting on his clothes and grabbing a bottle from his jacket pocket. "You sure?"

 

"I'm sure." Sam's voice is feather-soft.

 

Dean hands him their last water bottle and a pill. Sam disappears down the hall to brush his teeth and take the pill. Dean stays in the room, fixing Sam's desperately packed duffel. He smells his own armpit and recoils. Maybe he should be focusing on himself, too. If he doesn't, Sam's gonna use his own words against him, turn on the sad eyes and the raspy voice.

 

He passes Sam in the hallway, holding a pile of new clothes. Sam's hair is no longer a rat's nest, and his face isn't a sweaty mess. He gives Dean a thumbs up. Dean feels lighter than he has in days.

 

When everything is all said and done, they head downstairs, following the smell of cooking bacon to the kitchen, where Missouri's set up shop, sitting in a chair with a big mug of coffee. "Pot's already brewed," she says, "cream and sugar's on the counter."

 

"Thank you, Ms. Moseley," Sam says, grabbing a cup and filling it with coffee, then dumping packets of cream in it.

 

"Oh, hush," Missouri says, "Missouri only. You're practically family."

 

Sam smiles softly and Dean loads up two plates of eggs, toast and bacon, handing one off to Sam. Missouri fills them in on John's whereabouts, and Sam uses Missouri's phone to call up Pastor Jim and tell him as many details about the vision as he can remember, selling it like it’s a lead they had to give up. Pastor Jim promises that he'll get someone out there, and Sam hangs up the phone with a grin.

 

"He told me to make sure you don't make a fool of yourself," Sam tells Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam and Jim had always been co-conspirators when Sam was a tiny little tot, putting salt in Dean's ice cream and running away giggling when he spat it out. It’s one of the reasons he has such a big soft spot for the pastor.

 

"We've all got a good energy going here," Missouri says, bringing Dean out of his memories, "I think we should start now and create a plan for you, Sam. I have some ideas about how I want to start helping you."

 

Sam sits back down, folding his hands on the table. "What do you have in mind?" he asks, and Dean leans in close to hear.

 

"After getting to know you, I can tell you're an empath, too," Missouri starts, "very in-tune with emotions around you, just like I am. I think you and I need to spend some time bonding, letting our minds adjust to each other's presence. Then, I want to start with some basic things we've seen in the other psychic children. I'm thinking telekinesis as a start, to help you focus your mental energy. That way, you'll strengthen your mental muscles and all these weird concepts won't seem so foreign and daunting. It’ll come as easy as breathing after a while."

 

Sam chokes on his coffee. "Telekinesis?!" he gapes. "I can't do that."

 

Missouri hums. "Oh, honey, you have no idea how much potential is bubbling inside you. Psychic powers aren't scary. In the wrong person, they're weapons, but in you, I think they're a gift, Sam. At the least, I want to help you manage your mind. And if you never want to use your powers again, that's fine. I'll teach you how to keep 'em quiet."

 

"Okay," Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, I want to try. What do we do?"

 

"Good, good, good," Missouri smiles, clapping her hands together. "First, we meditate."

 

"Oh, great," Dean snarks, "should I get the incense out? Watch you guys align your chakras?"

 

"You'll be meditating with us, Dean," Missouri says, and there's a threat under her gentle tone, a warning. "I think you could use some peace of mind, too."

 

Dean wants to wipe the shit-eating grin off of Sam's face, but more than that, he wants to help. Even if all this mumbo-jumbo scares the crap out of him.

 

He doesn't put up a fight when Missouri asks him to help light some candles and move the living room table to the edge of the room.

 

They settle in a triangle on the rug, shoes and socks off, criss-cross applesauce. Dean’s knee lightly brushes against Sam’s. The low lighting and yellow flicker of the candles gives the room a relaxed ambiance, and Missouri closes her eyes, tilting her chin skyward.

 

Sam peers at her then raises an eyebrow at Dean. Dean shrugs back. After a moment of deliberation, Sam closes his eyes, too, moving his chin upward. His hands settle loosely on his knees, and Dean's happy to see them still.

 

Missouri clicks her tongue. "You too, Dean," she says, and oh, right. Dean shoves down all of his snarky comments and closes his eyes, letting out a breath.

 

"This is good," Missouri murmurs. "You're both already calm and relaxed. It shouldn't be too hard to let go of your thoughts. Meditation isn't bull, no matter what some parties in the room might think."

 

Sam laughs.

 

"Just clear your head, any way you can. It's different for everyone. I think about sitting on the porch, watching all the children rush home from school, and the air is dry and warm..."

 

Missouri's voice is even and low, and it pulls over Dean in a slow wash, until he no longer hears separate words, just a comforting lull of tones and breaths.

 

He has a feeling it's a good thing. He's not trying to tune her out, not really. It's like she's exerting some emotion over the room, or rather, the lack of one. Dean's heard of crazier. Shit, he has a feeling he's thinking pretty loudly. He could be disturbing Sam and Missouri. But how to clear his head?

 

It's not that difficult. He thinks of brown bangs and curly hair blowing in the wind of an open window, the sun streaming down through the dashboard window. Led Zeppelin IV is in the cassette player, and he knows every word and chord by heart so the melodies come easily to his mind. The road stretches out for miles, and they're somewhere edging on desert scrub, somewhere mid-America. It's summer but it's not unbearably hot or sweaty, and Sam is happy.

 

That's what gets his rhythm going. He imagines Sam's carefree laugh, Sam's legs propped up on the dashboard even after Dean threatens him with physical violence. He doesn't really mean it. Maybe when it gets dark and the stars are out and bright, shining fiercely 'cause the light pollution's low and they're out in nowhere, they'll sit out on the Impala's cool hood, just barely touching, just... living. Existing together, free, untethered, surviving by the pulse of the road and a cold, silver knife.

 

He loses himself in it, finds himself swaying back and forth like he's really in the driver's seat bumping over hills and poorly-filled potholes. The Impala's as big as a boat, so she moves like one, cresting the waves of hot, black pavement.

 

"Sam," Missouri whispers, and Dean is brought partly back to Earth. "Sam, keep your thoughts right where they are, but listen to my voice. You can be there and right here at the same time. Can you do that?"

 

"Yes," Sam sighs, and Dean doesn't have to look away from the road and the billboards passing by to hear the looseness of Sam's tone, the strained tension he'd been speaking with ever since Dean stumbled onto him in that parking lot all but obliterated.

 

"Alright, that's good," Missouri hums. "I want you to think of yourself as a source of light, Sam, a gentle being. Whatever beliefs you have about being grounded to human skin, human bone, just forget them for now. Forget any doubts you have about yourself. Every single one. You are not doubt. You are light."

 

"...Okay." Sam sounds less certain. Dean doesn’t blame him.

 

"Don't fall out, keep your thoughts relaxed," Missouri says, and Dean thinks she's talking to both of them. "Not doubt. Light."

 

"Okay," Sam says again, a little louder, a little clearer.

 

"Good. That's good, Sam. Now, if I ask you to open your eyes, do you think you can stay in your thoughts and in my living room? Like how you are right now?"

 

"Yes." Sam clears his throat. "I don't know how you're doing this, but yes."

 

"I'm not doing anything, honey. It's all you, remember? All your of your light. Now, open your eyes."

 

Dean opens his eyes with Sam. They blink in sync, chests inhaling and exhaling together. Dean can still feel the sway of his car beneath him, but it isn't the same. He is centered, but he knows he can't stay in his meditation place while looking after Sam. Maybe Sam is different.

 

He watches Sam. Sam doesn't look at him, his movements slow and lethargic. His face is blank, but it's a good thing--every worry line has disappeared, every tight frown or squinted eye replaced with a trancelike tranquility.

 

"Sam," Missouri says again, and it sounds a bit like a prayer to Dean, "Sam, you can sense emotions, just like me, you can connect with them, and you can see more than most people, in your dreams and out. But you can do so much more. You can. Now, I'm going to pull out a marble, okay? You're going to move it but you're not going to touch it."

 

The placid lake of Sam's face ripples a little as his brows twitch toward one another. "Missouri..."

 

"Shh, no, stay focused, stay calm." Missouri's voice is like an addiction but kinder, like a mother's voice and a lullaby pulled into one. "Don't think about doubt, or hows or whys or any of that. Just try, okay, sweetheart? No harm in trying. Do it like a reflex, like catching a baseball."

 

"Like catching a baseball," Sam repeats distractedly, his fingers twitching in his lap, and the marble flies out of Missouri's pocket and into the air in the center of all of them before Missouri can even raise a finger, floating around like it’s bobbing on top of a body of water.

 

"Holy fuck," Dean breathes out, and he's way too fucking zen to even feel freaked out about all of this.

 

Sam's eyes snap open and the marble falls to the ground, rolling toward him. Sam's mouth falls open and he picks it up, swallowing. "I knew it was blue. How did I know?"

 

There's a brief silence from Missouri and Dean watches her. She's looking at Sam like he's the second coming of Christ, and maybe she isn't so far off. "You're stronger than I thought," she says, unable to keep the wonder-worship out of her voice. "That was very good, Sam."

 

Sam's off like a spring trap, out of the room and up the stairs in second. A moment later, Dean hears a door shut softly, and then he's left alone with Missouri. Most of the candles have burned low or gone out altogether, and holy shit, it only felt like they were there for a couple of minutes.

 

Missouri stares up at the stairs, her lips pursed.

 

"I'll go talk to him," Dean says, shaking her out of her reverie. "He probably freaked himself out."

 

Missouri shoots him a grateful smile. "Thank you for sitting with us, Dean. You have potential, too. You act as a great complement to Sam. You help him out just by being here."

 

Dean doesn't know what to say to her praise. He stands up, knees cracking, holding out a hand so she can follow suit. She takes it.

 

"That's what I'm here for," he says, "we'll be right back."

 

Missouri smiles again. "Take your time."

Dean takes off after Sam, like he’s been doing his whole life. When he gets to their bedroom door, he pauses, taking a breath, giving Sam a moment. He can’t even imagine what must be going through Sam’s big head, what kind of emotions and ideas are swirling around in a dark cesspit of dangerous thoughts.

 

Dean leans his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. He can’t hear any noises from the other side, has no idea what Sam’s up to.

 

God. If Sam only knew how beautiful he was, how fucking magical. Sure, Dean was scared at first, and a little creeped out, and holy fucking _christ_ did that vision make him want to scream, but aren’t all new, wonderful things terrifying at first?

 

Sam is not evil. Sam is the perfect opposite of bad, the reverse and inverse of all of monsterdom. His abilities don’t make him a freak, don’t make him one of them, no matter what Sam believes. Sure, it’s hard to understand, and weird as fuck, and the demon is a real piece of fucking work, but Dean’s certainty is an immovable rock in his gut.

 

Sam is stunning, wonderful, fantastic, all of those feel-good words and so much more. He just needs to get it through his thick fucking skull.

 

Dean tries the handle and finds the door is unlocked. He knocks twice. “Sam?” he calls through the wood. “You better be decent, ‘cause I’m coming in.”

 

He takes a breath and lets it out as he strolls through the door, shoving as much false confidence into his steps and his face, slowing down near the center of the room, his motivation steadily dwindling as he takes in the sight before him.

 

Sam is at the far wall, under the windowsill, tucked into the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms curled around them, his head lowered.

 

He looks so small.

 

"Sammy?" Dean tries again, softer this time. "You good?"

 

Sam doesn't respond, doesn't so much as lift his head or blink, just keeps on staring straight ahead, and Dean's heart is high in his throat, stealing his oxygen.

 

He walks to Sam like he's stepping around carnage and settles to the ground beside his brother, keeping some distance between them just in case Sam is in one of those moods where he doesn't like to be touched.

 

He stretches his legs out, settling his hands on his knees. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. Through the window, he hears a car go by, rumbling off into the distance. Otherwise, it's silent.

 

"Sam, c'mon. Talk to me."

 

He doesn't expect anything, and his eyes fly open when Sam heaves a small, bitter laugh. "What is there to say?" Sam rasps, in that way-too-familiar edge-of-tears voice of his, wobbly and rough. "You saw what I did down there. You saw what I am."

 

Sam hiccups, wiping discretely at one of his eyes.

 

"Sammy, please," Dean says. "What I saw was my little brother, okay? I know it's scary but it's not bad. You're like Missouri. She's not bad, is she?"

 

Sam shakes his head, sniffling. His eyes are all twisted up and puppy-shiny. "It's not the same," he says. "she doesn't have a demon in her head all the time. What if I got the powers from him? We still don't know what really happened all those years ago, Dean. We don't know what he did. I'm a freak." Sam spits out the last word.

 

Fuck distance. "Hey, no you're not," Dean growls, scooting across the floor and wrapping an arm around Sam. Sam twitches but settles, leaning against Dean's shoulder. "I don't give a shit what happened, Sam. I don't give a damn. Because I know you. And you're human and scared and so fucking good and you can't see it." His own breaks and he looks away, flushing, feeling Sam's eyes on his face.

 

"But what if I'm not?" Sam pushes, and Dean is so close to breaking. "What if someday I go darkside?"

 

"And why the fuck would you ever do that?" Dean turns back to Sam. "You shed tears when the family dog dies during a hunt. You saved up money when you were eleven years old to fucking donate to charity. I mean--I have now idea how you turned out so damn amazing, Sammy. Dad and I did good by you, but we're not fucking role models. Whatever we did, though, we were given an angel."

 

Oh, god. Right into cheese mode. He knows Sam needs to hear it, and honestly, he means every word. It's just hard for him to get it out straight.

 

Sam laughs. "You don't mean that."

 

"Yeah? And why not?"

 

Sam shrugs, but his face is trembling, and he's shaking under the strain of trying to hold it together. "Because I left," he croaks, "I ignored your calls, I screamed at Dad, I left both of you like garbage. I'm not good."

 

Dean tries not to flinch away from Sam's words, blinking. "You wanted a normal life. And as much as I wanted to keep you to myself, I get it, okay? You were always different, so smart, so damn stubborn. I don't think Dad and I ever really blamed you for that. So you gotta stop blaming yourself."

 

Sam doesn't respond. He turns his face away, looking out the window. Dean feels like he's losing him, like Sam's slipping right through his fingers and all of his attempts to gather him up just make him disappear faster. He knows how Sam's head can get, and he saw how Sam was destroying himself so slowly with drugs and pain, letting other people tear him apart from the inside out. He has the brief thought to hide all the guns in the house and hide them _now,_ but no, he won't let it get that far. He just has to say it in a way Sam will understand.

 

He grabs Sam by the shoulder, turns Sam to face him even as Sam's eyes go wide and his breathing quickens. He gets up close, right up into Sam's space, his eyes flicking between Sam's. "Stop it," he barks, "stop beating yourself up and let me in. _Just let me in._ You're a good man, okay? The best I know. Better than me, better than Dad. I know how fucking terrifying this is, I get it. But you have to let us help. You're not bad, Sammy, just caught up in a bad situation. But I can help get you out, I--please."

 

He shakes Sam by the shoulders. Sam gulps in lungfuls of air, his eyes never blinking, linked to Dean's in some connection that is bigger than either of them.

 

Then Sam's lips are on his.

 

He has no time to react, only managing a small noise of surprise before Sam is in his lap, forcing him backward until he's almost laying on the floor, propped up on his elbows, and Sam is straddling him, pushing his shoulders down with an energy Dean didn't think he had in him.

 

For a moment, he gives in, closing his eyes and sighing into Sam's mouth, sneaking his tongue past Sam's parted lips. His heart thunders in his chest, his body heating up, and his hands are desperate to curl around Sam and hold him close, desperate to touch and feel, and he aches with it all.

 

He gets a grip on himself and spreads his palm wide on Sam's chest, feeling the fluttering heartbeat there. He pushes Sam up and away, and Sam doesn't put up much of a fight, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at Dean with bright pink cheeks and an open, glossy mouth, his hair a mess, their chests heaving in sync.

 

Dean blinks and finds his way back into his body. "Sam, what?"

 

"You..." Sam sags, looking younger and full of doubt, like when he used to climb into Dean's bed after having a nightmare, asking if he could stay. Dean could never say no, and he knows he won't ever be able to say no to Sam about this. "You kissed me in the car."

 

Dean starts. "You remember that?"

 

Sam's lip tug up, just a little. "Hard to forget," he murmurs.

 

"Sam, I was just..." Dean wets his lips, fumbling for words. "I thought you were dead, y'know? It was an emotional response."

 

Any emotion on Sam's face gets shuttered away. "So it was nothing?"

 

"No!" Dean gasps, and then Sam's face curves back into a satisfied smile, and shit. Cunning Sam, the little shit.

 

Dean shakes his head, and shit, Sam's smile is contagious. He sits up straighter, cupping Sam's cheek with his palm. "I don't know what you expect me to say," he tells Sam, caught up in his hazel-autumn eyes, "I just need you safe, need you happy. Need you."

 

Sam's eyes fill up and presses his face into Dean's collarbone, wrapping his arms around Dean. "It's so scary," he whispers hoarsely, "I can't do it without you."

 

Dean rubs his hands up and down Sam's back. "Shhh, hey. You won't have to, okay? I know it sucks, but I'm here. Not leaving."

 

Sam pulls back, only enough to meet Dean's eyes. "You sure?"

 

Dean shoves Sam in the stomach and Sam falls backward, squawking. "Yes, I'm sure, you big idiot," he says, 'cause if they continue down this road any longer he's gonna burst into tears and handcuff himself to his baby brother. "Get offa me, you big oaf."

 

Sam gets to his feet. "Oh, shut up," he says, and the smile is so big in his voice that Dean can’t resist standing and ruffling Sam's hair.

 

Sam ducks out of his reach, petting down his hair into something that doesn't resemble a rat's nest.

 

"Missouri's waiting on us," Dean says, walking over to the door. "And it's lunch. And I'm fuckin' starving."

 

Dean opens the door, but Sam's voice stops him, and he turns back, raising an eyebrow in question.

 

Sam twirls and fiddles with his fingers. "You're--you're sure this is okay? I mean, you n' me?"

 

Of course Sam would want to talk about it. Any other moment, Dean would indulge in the chick-flick moment, but he's at the end of his rope. "I already said I was sure, okay? C'mon. We shouldn't keep her waiting." He nods back toward the hall.

 

Sam gives him that soft look that means he's reading Dean's fucking thoughts, understanding him better than he understands himself, and he kind of hates that look, because he should be the one giving it to Sam. The moment only lasts a second longer before Sam's shoving him in the arm and slipping past him, calling out to Missouri.

 

Thank god. He'd thought Sam would break down, would give up, would lay down and die. But he wasn't giving Sam enough credit. Sam's a fighter, just like him, and too selfless for his own good.

 

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, thundering down the stairs to catch up with Sam.

  


 

 

Things sort of fall into place after that.

 

Dean had been bracing himself for the worst since the moment he saw Sam at that street corner. It actually feels a little weird for things to be going their way. His life has been one giant shitfest up to this point, so it seems only logical for fate to to continue its routine of kicking them while they're down, like sad little puppies.

 

But Sam's gaining weight. Sam doesn't constantly look haunted, thinking back on shit that Dean doesn't even know how to begin to talk with him about. Even when it terrifies both of them, Sam works with Missouri, meditating for hours each day, focusing his mind. He still has nightmares, but he hasn’t had a vision since that day in the car, and Dean doesn’t know whether they’re overdue or if his wizard training with Missouri is kicking in already.

 

Dean joins them every afternoon and finds he doesn't actually hate the peace and quiet of meditation, especially when it means Sam is calm, too. He hasn't felt this clear, this driven in years, and having purpose again is a damned good feeling. It doesn't hurt that he's got his little brother back, too, after those few years of lifeless absence.

 

Missouri shoves them out of the house sometimes to have moments to herself, free of the headache-inducing fog of other people's thoughts surrounding her. Dean doesn't know where to drive, so he just takes them through the neighborhood, and they stumble upon a quiet little park, full of happy couples and well-adjusted people walking their purebred dogs.

 

Sam doesn't comment when Dean gets out and stretches. Birdsong is their companion as they weave their way down dirt trails, breathing in the forest air, scented with dirt and tentative, Spring life, the tall trees forming a canopy above them that only lets in brief pierces of wavering light, like they're in some strange underwater land.

 

It's just damn refreshing, is what it is. After a sweaty motel and the cloying incense of Missouri's house, it's nice to get outdoors for a change.

 

Dean stops at a bench that looks over a gentle valley, littered with leaves and moss. Sam sits down next to him, letting out a long breath.

 

Dean slings an arm around his brother and Sam leans into the touch, their shoulders bumping. Dean cocks his head up and peers around with sharp eyes. He knows he can't let down his guard. He tries to show with his face that he's not to be fucked with, that anything that wants Sam has to go through him first.

 

Sam leans his head against the crook of Dean's neck. Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder.

 

"I'm afraid to talk to Dad," Sam murmurs, low enough that Dean has to strain to make out what he’s saying.

 

When all the pieces click, he frowns. "Little random," he says, "s'not like he's gonna snap at you, dude."

 

"But I yelled at him, he told me never to come back," Sam says. "And he--he _knows_ about me. He knows I'm a freak."

 

"Sam," Dean warns, glaring at the beautiful greenery all around him.

 

"I know, I know," Sam sighs, "but we don't know how he feels about it. For all we know, he could hate me. And I--I don't want him to."

 

Sam's voice cracks and Dean unwraps himself from around Sam, turning to look Sam in the eye. "Sam, he doesn't hate you," he says, watching as the conviction in his tone loosens the muscles in Sam's shoulders. _Good._ "He could never hate you. Sure, you fought last time you saw each other, but he checked up on you at Stanford, kiddo. We'd cruise by your dorm sometimes, just checkin' on you. He misses you. It'll be fine, dude."

 

"Okay." Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, so say I believe you. Then maybe we should call him."

 

"I... kinda already did," Dean says, wincing. He looks away from Sam's big eyes and shrugs. "You were doing great with Missouri and I couldn't meditate and I was dialing his number before I knew it, y'know? But he didn't pick up. I left a voicemail sayin' we were with Missouri and that you were alright."

 

Sam's quiet for a moment, his expression slightly stormy. His face is scrunched up in that insanely thoughtful look of his, and whenever Dean imagines Stanford, he imagines classrooms full of kids with the same fuckin' look, every single one of the little geeks.

 

"When was the last time you saw him?" Sam asks an indeterminable time later.

 

Dean shrugs. "We split up a couple months before I went looking for you," he says. He raises an eyebrow at Sam's incredulous look. "I'm twenty-six, dude. I can hunt on my own. He had some lead he wanted to look into, and he never answered my calls then, either. Dude's a friggin' mystery, it's nothing new."

 

"So you're not worried?" Sam asks quietly, and Dean wonders how he can go from sounding so old to sounding so young in such a short amount of time.

 

"Nah." Dean flops back against the bench and hooks his arm around Sam's waist, tugging him closer. "We could go looking for him if you wanted, though. But with all of this shit we know now... I don't think he wants to be found."

 

"Neither do I," Sam says. "I just hate not knowing, you know? He could be dead in a ditch somewhere."

 

Dean tries not to let his imagination bother him. "Hell knows I wanna find him, but he's fine, Sam. We'll all be fine."

 

"Okay." Sam nods, his lip jutting out, and Dean can almost see the cogs in his head trying to convince themselves of what Dean's saying.

 

Dean pats Sam on the arm. "Now, I don't know about you, but there's a burger somewhere calling my name. _Oooh, Dean,_ it's saying. _Eat me, please._ " Dean moans sexually, eliciting a traumatized look from a mother walking by with her child.

 

Sam laughs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, his dimples elongated parentheses framing his sin of a mouth, and shit, Dean has never been more in love. He tugs Sam by the wrist and leads him back through the forest, smelling and looking just like a cute little honeymoon.

 

Sam seems to be able to sense the change in the air. The moment they're back to the car, burgers are far out of Dean's mind, and he's dizzy with all the blood that’s rushing south.

 

Sam's in the passenger seat, his long, gangly legs folded into the footwell, his knobby knees sticking up, and everything would appear normal if it weren't for his eyes, so heavy-lidded, his teeth sneaking out to bite at his lip.

 

Sam doesn't make the first move. Dean can see the doubt in his eyes, so clear, his Sam-dictionary providing an immediate definition for the emotions flitting across Sam's features.

 

Dean feels the fuckin' same, if he's honest with himself. This is all so new and strange and completely outside of his comfort zone, but he knows Sam feels all of it. They both know it. They both want it. Hell, he can feel the need radiating off of Sam. Sam's always been clingy like that. Dean's never minded.

 

So he thinks _fuck it_. He presses Sam up against the passenger side door and Sam's eye's go wide as Dean leans in to kiss him. Dean runs a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam shivers, freezing up for just the tiniest of moments before he surges forward, opening his mouth wide and pressing his tongue up against Dean's.

 

The kiss goes dirty so fast that Dean's head is spinning, but he's not complaining. He kisses Sam back, pulling out all the stops, using every trick in the book that he knows makes girls toes curl. He laps up into Sam's mouth, wet and mouth, biting and nipping, and Sam gasps and shudders underneath him, so warm and firm.

 

Sam pulls away, their noses brushing, their lips shiny and sensitive. “Are you sure?” he whispers, and Dean runs a hand through Sam’s hair, calming his trembles. He feels his eyes sting slightly, and he nods. Sam’s eyes go soft and dewy and raw and vulnerable and Dean knows it’s trust he’s seeing there, and nothing but.

 

He stops thinking about it after that. Need and lust and love take over his thinking brain, working on instinct and drive, and Sam's no better off, already sweating through his shirt, his collarbones stark and shiny and Dean leans down to kiss them, Sam heaving underneath him, breathing loudly through his nose.

 

Sam huffs and grabs Dean's shirt, yanking him up with a determined strength. Dean goes easy, and he'd be fine with kissing the years away if it weren't for his cock growing heavy between his legs, pressing up uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.

 

Sam jerks up against him and Dean slides his hand up, just a tad, really, but he feels it. Sam is hard, too, the bulge at the front of his pants unmistakeable.

 

It jars Dean for a second. He's never been with a guy in his life. He's gotten plenty of offers, sure, but no one ever turned him on.

 

But no girl, no long-legged killer in a bikini has ever made him feel the way Sam does. Sam drives him absolutely crazy, in the worst and best ways possible. Sam is everything. Sam has always been everything.

 

In a brief moment of clarity, Dean thinks that if Sam had kissed him ever in his life, he would have kissed back, no question, because he's always been Sam's, somehow. He has always belonged to Sam, from the moment the bean-sized baby was placed in his arms. It just seems so obvious now. It feels foreign that they ever spent any time in their lives without touching, the Stanford years seeming like a distant bad dream.

 

Sam interprets his pause for something completely different, making a pained noise low in his throat and pressing back against the door, tilting his head away from Dean.

 

"Dean, look..." Sam starts, and god, he sounds so pained, like his throat has gone three rounds with a cheese grater. "If you don't want this, I get it. I-"

 

Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder and thunks him back against the window. "Shut up," he growls. He gives Sam a brief, rough kiss, tasting blood on his tongue. "Undo your belt."

 

Sam swallows audibly, his pupils completely blown, but he obeys Dean's order immediately, sending Dean's dick into a twitching frenzy, blurting out precome and getting his boxers wet.

 

Dean grows impatient. He tugs the belt away from Sam's jeans and tosses it away, forgotten. He unbuttons Sam's pants and unzips him, pulling his dick out of his boxers in one fluid movement.

 

Sam gasps, biting down a groan.

 

Dean squeezes the base of Sam, so hot, pulsing against his palm, and Dean's mouth fucking waters. Something about Sam is addicting, something about it being his baby brother's fucking cock in his hand, so long and slim, pink-perfect, is too much to handle.

 

He strokes Sam the way he likes it on himself, a few times from the base to the head, rubbing his thumb over Sam's slit and listening to the delicious, high-pitched moans he gets from Sam in response.

 

He can't ignore his own hard-on, though, which is almost painful after seeing Sam so vulnerable, after having Sam trust him like this.

 

He murmurs a quick apology and undoes his belt, shrugging his pants and boxers down to his thighs.

 

Sam swears and reaches out to curl a hesitant hand around Dean's length and Dean moans.

 

"Oh, fuck," Sam whispers, breathing harsh and fast. "Dean, god, Dean, please."

 

Dean gets his knees up on the seat and crawls on top of Sam. Sam slinks down onto the seat, slipping out of his jeans. Dean rubs a hand on Sam's hip, squeezing, his nails digging into the soft flesh there.

 

He bends forward to kiss Sam again, his finger’s movements up and down Sam's silky shaft almost gentle, slow and measured. Sam's stroking him quickly and efficiently, bunching the skin beneath Dean's crown in a way that makes heat curl around in his belly, and he doesn't stop to think about how fucking good Sam is at this, or why, he just pushes his hips forward, his cock sliding right up against Sam's.

 

Sam's panting like a dog, now, his mouth held open, easy-access for Dean's tongue to explore. He swats Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam wraps his arms around Dean's neck.

 

Dean rubs his thumb at the precome spilling out of Sam, and he's so wet, just like a girl. He uses it to slick up both of their cocks, holding them both in his hand and stroking, fucking his hips up against Sam to give them both heated friction.

 

Sam whimpers high and sluttily, throwing his head back into the seat, baring his neck. His hips are bucking up against Dean's, and their cockheads rub on every up and downstroke, and god, they've just only started but Dean is so close. He can feel it in the base of his back, in his blood, in his balls. He's not going to last.

 

They find a rhythm, grinding in tandem, Dean's hand adding pressure. Dean breaks apart from Sam's captivating mouth to suck at Sam's adam's apple, adding a little teeth, kissing a bruise into Sam's pale skin.

 

Sam screams in the back of his throat and his hips go up and freeze, and Dean feels a warm fluid spill over his fist as Sam comes, groaning like a dog in heat, his eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, and Dean thinks he might've fucked the brains out of the poor kid.

 

He tightens his grip on Sam's hip and moves faster, more desperately, and Sam pawing at his hand and licking up the come from Dean’s fingers is the last fucking straw. Dean muffles his sob in Sam's sweaty shoulder, coming in long ropes all over Sam's chest, and he's never orgasmed harder in his life.

 

He flops bonelessly down on Sam, sighing. They're sticky and sweaty and gross but Dean's ascended from his body, his eyes shut, pins and needles covering him.

 

"Oh my god. We're in public. We did that in your car in public." Sam eventually whispers, his voice getting louder as the realization hits him.

 

Dean is still too sated to care. He flops off of Sam, tugging his boxers up over his softening dick. Sam's blushing a violent shade of red and he's fumbling with his pants, his hand trembling as he struggles to get the belt through the loops.

 

"Dude, s'okay, no one saw," Dean says, yawning. He frowns, patting his belly. "Still need a burger."

 

"Dean, no," Sam says, affronted, still blushing. "We're not going to a fast-food joint while I'm covered in your come."

 

Dean chuckles. "Oh, man," he sighs. "I would pay a million bucks to hear you say that again."

 

"Dean." Sam punches him in the arm. "...If we're going anywhere, I'm wearing your jacket."

 

Oh, fuck yes. Sam is a saint, a hot, beautiful little saint. Dean willingly sheds his leather jacket, trying to tamp down the animal inside him that gloats at seeing Sam slip his arms into the sleeves.

 

If he could, he'd eat and sleep and fuck some more, but he knows Sam. He knows what's going through Sam's mind. He rubs a hand up and down Sam's back as he drives, letting Sam's panicking brain know that it's alright.

 

"You okay?" he asks, stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

 

Sam smiles softly at him. "A little tired. Freaking out, just a bit. Think I might need a pill. But, honestly? I’m good. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am."

 

And that's all Dean needs to hear.

 

 

 

 

Dean wishes he could say that the rest of the day was sunshine and fairy dust, but life just wouldn't be realistic for the Winchesters if there wasn't something bringing them down, even just a little bit.

 

Sam's got a headache, but Dean's pretty sure it's actually a migraine by the slow, zombielike gait Sam has adopted. Missouri's senses it, too, and she goes around and shuts all the curtains and switches off any lights.

 

Missouri tries to get him to meditate but Sam isn't in the right headspace. They sit in darkness, criss-cross applesauce, waiting. Dean counts down to Sam finally saying something about it.

 

"This is fucking stupid," Sam growls, right as Dean hits zero. "We're not going to get anything done right now. I don't want to make you guys wait for some parlor trick that's not gonna happen."

 

"It's okay, Sam," Dean says. "Do you need a pill?"

 

"No." Sam's voice is curt and snappish. "I had one this morning. Just one. We'll fuck up all my progress if I have another and I'll just be an addict again."

 

"I'm not really liking the energy in here right now," Missouri interjects mildly. "Do you want something else then, Sam? Advil? Chamomile tea? Being frustrated and angry at yourself won't help anything, and I think you know that."

 

"I know," Sam sighs, shooting Missouri an apologetic look, but she just smiles, ever patient, ever gentle. Dean thinks she should be sainted or some shit. Mother Missouri.

 

"Thank you, Dean," Missouri says, getting up and patting Dean on the back. Missouri's eyes are kind and he tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve her love. He doesn't want to make her sad.

 

He focuses on Sam instead, lets Sam lean on him as they get back on their feet.

 

"We'll try again later," Missouri calls out, disappearing into the kitchen. "I've got a client comin' in around four, so we won't be able to use the living room for the bit. Is that room upstairs clean?"

 

"Pristine," Dean says at the same time Sam says "no."

 

Missouri clicks her tongue. "Dean, you know that wasn't ever gonna work."

 

Dean feels his ears burn like he's a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.

 

"We'll get it tidy," Sam says, "and Dean'll do the laundry."

 

Dean opens his mouth to protest but Missouri laughs. "How kind of him," she says, and Dean has no choice but to shut up and put up.

 

He feels like he's finally almost home.

 

The only washing machine Dean's ever used was at a twenty-five cent laundromat, so Missouri's newfangled machine puzzles him for a bit, but it's no challenge. Dean can speak to machines, can break apart and reassemble a watch in a moment's notice, can tell what's wrong with Baby by the sound of her engine.

 

He makes his way back upstairs as the clothes tumble along to find Sam pulling up the corner of the bedspread and smoothing it out. He looks up when Dean enters, his puppy bangs falling into his eyes. His face is still pasty and drawn. Right. The tea or whatever.

 

Missouri has it in her hand, a single eyebrow cocked when Dean turns the corner into the kitchen and almost barrels right into her. "You silly boys," she says, "your memory only works with the other around."

 

Dean says a quick thank you and hauls ass up to Sam. Ever since he realized how many days it's been since Sam's last vision, he's been just waiting for the other shoe to drop. A migraine might be some forewarning, some precursor to some seriously awful shit. If that's the case, tea probably won't help, but he might as well try.

 

"Room service," Dean chirps, adopting his best Oxford accent, bowing low as he steps into their room.

 

"Gimme a moment, you loser," Sam mutters, rubbing at his temples. He hobbles over to the windows and slams shut the curtains. His shoulders untense and he turns. Dean approaches him to save him the walk and hands over the cup, his fingers brushing against Sam's as Sam curls his digits around the handle.

 

"Careful, it's hot," Dean says uselessly, watching Sam carefully handle the porcelain.

 

Sam takes a loud, slurping sip, shutting his eyes. "Mmm. That's good."

 

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, maybe to you. Coffee is the only shit that will grace my lips."

 

Sam takes another sip. "Do I need to make a 'shit on your lips' joke, or is it too obvious?"

 

Dean's glare does not match the warm bubbles in his chest. "Oh, shut up," he says, and Sam hides his smile by bringing his teacup back up to his lips. His bright, color-changing eyes betray him, though, turning to a warm honey-molasses color, tilted and happy like a playful fox.

 

Sam finishes his tea and sets it on the dresser, slinking over to Dean and curling his arms around Dean's hips, tipping his chin up and smiling at Dean from under his eyelashes. Sam cocks his head and meets Dean in a playful kiss, and Dean can taste the tea in Sam's mouth. It's actually pretty delicious, but maybe that's just because it's in Sam's heaven of a mouth.

 

Sam's hands tighten over the rise of Dean's ass, and their bodies are pulled flush against each other as Dean finds the perfect angle to lick into Sam's mouth, their tongues swiping against one another.

 

Sam unwraps his arms from around Dean and grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward before tossing him down on the bed, the air going out of Dean in a quiet whumph as his head hits the pillow.

 

Sam's on top of him before he can blink, knees on either side of his hips, and Sam shrugs out of his shirt in one deft, practiced movement before he's kissing Dean again, his lips forceful with their intent.

 

Dean nudges Sam away with his nose. "Well, Sam," he says, grinning like a loser.

 

"Just wanted to thank you for the tea," Sam tosses out, too casual, rolling his hips down against Dean in a move that he's seen way too many times in pornos.

 

None of this sits right with him, and his half-hard cock gets no further than that. He pushes Sam away again and shuffles up the bed, sitting up on his elbows. Sam's got a look in his eyes that he's never, ever seen before. He thinks that it's the look Sam gave that guy in the car, the look Sam wore like makeup when street corners were his place of work.

 

"Is that what this is?" Dean chokes out. "What, you--you think you owe me sex, Sam? I don't want to be thanked with a fuck... god, Sam, what am I to you? Some john?" The words are bitter in his mouth and he lashed out too much, landed a real blow.

 

Sam hops off of him, and that canned rage he's always had brewing inside him is breaking out, his veins standing out on his forehead, his jaw locked tight. He shoves his shirt back on over his broad shoulders, tugging it down over his hips.

 

"Is that how you see me?" Sam counters. "A slut, a hooker, a whore? Did you want to be my first, Dean? Are you disappointed that I'm used goods?"

 

Dean jerks back, feeling a phantom sting on his cheek and down in his gut, like Sam has slapped him. "No... god, no, Sammy," he says, moving toward Sam, but Sam backs up with his every encounter, keeping the space between them, winding out the spool of discord until Dean is drowning in it.

 

"Save it," Sam snarls, his lips curling. "I'm not some precious fucking sweetheart virgin that you can hold close and call _baby_. I had sex every day for months with men older than Dad, with beer guts and cheaters and businessmen who like to choke and hit. Don't treat me like your innocent little brother."

 

"That's not what this is!" Dean says, his voice cracking with desperation, and god, he would give anything to stop Sam from keeping away from him, inching further and further like a cornered animal, eyes flashing with defiance, not one to go down easy. It shouldn't be like that, never, not ever again, and Dean's going to fix this even if he has to get down on one goddamn knee. "Would you just--just listen to me, Sam, please. Just hear me out, okay? That's all I'm askin' for. Nothing else."

 

Sam's eyes are getting redder by the second and he nods, still tense and angry, his movements stiff. His hands are curled up into tight fists, but they loosen when Dean sits back onto the bed and looks up at his brother.

 

"I just..." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "I just thought we'd be different, y'know? And I don't... you know I can't talk about this shit..."

 

"At least try," Sam hisses, but his voice is full and pinched like someone on the cusp of a full breakdown.

 

"I am. I will," Dean says, and shit, his voice is no better. "I thought you n' me would be a thing, we'd be together, you know? A team. You and me, come whatever, all of that crap. And I'd get to, get to kiss you and you'd swing your legs around me and grin and we could take our time. I know the life you led, Sammy. And I'll listen when you want to talk about it. I'll be here, okay? 'Cause I know it bothers you, it gives you nightmares, even if you act like it was no big deal."

 

Dean pauses to take a breath. "I just thought you wouldn't wanna be reminded of that with me, you know? I was thinkin' we wouldn't even have real sex for awhile now, so your memories wouldn't be bothering you. I know I act like hot shit all the time, but I don't need sex from you, Sam. If it hurts you, I don't even want it. I'm not some mindless dog. And it's you, Sam, I mean. You gotta know how I feel about you, okay? You'd never be any of those words to me. I don't know if I'm getting any of this across but I just wanted you to trust me, to take it slow, you know? I wanna take my time with you. I don't want you to think about any of that crappy shit when you're with me."

 

Dean presses his head into his hands but looks back up a moment later, forcing his face to contort into a sad grin as he gazes over at Sam. "I want to make you happy."

 

Sam doesn't say anything. He walks over and sits down next to Dean, staring at the floor. Dean gives him his space, gives him his time, gazing across the room without seeing it. All he can see is the skinny, haunted boy that he'd stumbled upon in some miraculous twist of fate. He can still see that boy in Sam. It hasn't even been that long since that day. Sam is still healing.

 

Sam sniffles, and Dean peeks a look over at him, and he's greeted with the sight of wet cheeks and glassy eyes, Sam biting his lip as he tries to cry as quietly as possible.

 

Oh, god damn it. Dean feels a sympathetic pain all the way down to his toes. He guesses he does still sorta see Sam as a little, innocent kid, and maybe Sam still would be if none of this nightmare shit had ever happened to him. It's not fair, and Dean knows one day he'll get his god damn revenge, he'll see his father again. He feels it with the certainty that comes with revenge and redemption, a burning, continuous fire down low in him. Dean is gonna slit that demon's fucking throat and laugh at its pathetic death throes.

 

Sam collapses against his side, jarring him right back into the present. His anger won't do either of them any good right now. He loops an arm around Sam and pulls him close. He reaches up and combs his fingers through Sam's hair, cooing little meaningless nothings.

 

"It's okay, Sammy," he murmurs, "you don't have to say anything, we don't have to do anything. Does your head still hurt?"

 

Sam turns and buries his nose into the crook of Dean's neck, shivering. "I don't know what to do," he croaks, sniffing. "I want to, I do, but when I think of you seeing me like that... it's like you're seeing me with all those guys, like I'm dirty. Like I'm not clean. And that time in the car was amazing, and I do trust you, Dean, I do, but it still feels like a job. Like if I don't do it you'll get tired of me. And I know that's bullshit but I can't shake it."

 

Dean stares up at the ceiling and blinks away the burn in his eyes. He runs his hand up and down Sam's shoulder. "Then we should wait," he says. "I'm okay for foolin' around, I'm okay for anything as long as you're good with it. But you don't owe me shit, Sammy. And never in Hell will I ever leave you, not for a single damn reason. So maybe we should cool it, okay? Take it easy. Things don't have to change between us, even with physical stuff. I wouldn't want 'em to."

 

"Okay," Sam breathes out, curling a little closer to Dean like he's trying to burrow into Dean's skin, to hide from the mess of reality. "It'll be different. I want it to be different, too, like you said... I guess I'm just scared," Sam says hoarsely.

 

"Me too," Dean says, turning his head to plant a kiss on the top of Sam's head. He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Me too, dude, but that just means it's something important, right? And nothing's more important than Sammy."

 

Sam pulls away and smiles up at him with teary eyes and blotchy cheeks, his dimples wavering as he tries to keep from breaking down. Dean traces a thumb over Sam's cheek, knowing his face is a fond, gooey mess right now, but Sam's eyes are drawing him in and he can't hide any of himself.

 

Dean pulls his hand away. The smile never leaves Sam's face. "There's nothing more important than Dean, either," he says, grabbing Dean's hand.

 

Dean twines his fingers with Sam’s, his heart threatening to escape out his throat. He's never felt anything like this. He feels like his old definition of love is obsolete, is garbage, nothing compared to what he's experiencing now, something he could never begin to put into sufficient words.

 

He stands and stretches. He coughs and claps his hands together to avoid the alternative of bawling his eyes out. "Good talk," he says, nodding, and before he can change the subject to something less life-shattering, Sam keels over, slipping off of the bed and onto the floor.

 

"Sam?!" Dean barks, falling to his knees beside Sam, pressing both of his hands to Sam's chest, pushing him upright.

 

"Oh, oh, oh god," Sam gasps, crying out and digging his fingernails into his scalp. "It's a vision, it's a vision, I don't want it..."

 

"Shit," Dean growls. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and shakes him until Sam's eyes open, mere slits, eyelids drooping back down almost immediately. "Sam, look at me, focus, hey, this is what you've been working on, huh? With Missouri? The meditation? You have to go there now."

 

"I can't," Sam whines, squeezing his eyes shut again, a fat tear slipping down the apple of his cheek. "It hurts too much, I won't be able to do it, he'll see everything, he'll come for me."

 

"Hey. No." Dean pets Sam's back in little circles, his heart going scared rabbit-fast. He stands and leaves Sam for a moment, even as it kills a part of him. He opens the door to call to Missouri but stops when he hears footsteps storming up. Missouri appears around the corner a second later, looking more harried and distressed than Dean has ever seen her. He equates her with serenity, with confidence, but now her hair is slipping out of her headband, her shoes tossed off as she runs.

 

"What about the-"

 

"Sent him home, told him want he wanted to hear," Missouri interrupts, bustling into their room and sitting down next to Sam. She puts a hand on his forehead and he leans into it. She makes a low, worried noise in the back of her throat, shuffling around until she's sitting cross-legged. She looks at Dean.

 

Dean drops down and folds up his legs. "Hey, Sammy?" he says, low and urgent, leaning forward and curling his hand behind Sam's ear. "Sam, you gotta sit like us, finish the triangle, so we can meditate and help you take away the pain."

 

"It won't work. I can't do it," Sam cries, but his colt legs shake and slide until he's sitting, hunched over his lap with his hands over his eyes.

 

"Sam, honey," Missouri tries, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Do you feel me? Can you sense me? Follow that energy, honey, it's completely fine, you're fine. Pain is physical, but you aren't."

 

Dean thinks that's a load of shit, but hey, if psychic placebo works, who is he to dispute it? "Yeah," he agrees, petting Sam's hair with the tips of his fingers, hoping Sam will show his face. "Power through it. Where is your calm place Sam? Go there. Ignore the bastard knocking on your door."

 

Sam sighs and nods, sitting up straighter. "I'm trying," he wheezed, "it's gonna come anyway."

 

"It will, you aren't strong enough to block it yet," Missouri says, and Dean gapes at her nerve. "But you can fight the pain. You can see it without being hurt, without the migraines. And you can see it without him knowing where you are. You might not be able to shut out the vision, but you can sure as hell shut out him. You're damn strong enough. You're a fighter, boy, I saw that in you the moment you came in here. So fight for me now."

 

Missouri puts a hand on Dean's knee and on Sam's, and now Dean's getting close to tears, too, all of his emotions roiling around inside him, unsatisfied. He says _thank you thank you thank you_ in his mind, and Missouri's eyes move over to him, shining too, and she nods, smiling.

 

Sam's spine goes rigid and his hands fall away from his face. His eyes have gone that sick shade of grey again, but the rest of his face isn't dead, not like before, and he's not rocking back and forth like a man who's too far gone.

 

 

"I can see it," Sam says, his words choked and garbled, his eyes going side-to-side like the tail of a kit-cat clock. "It's hurting..."

 

"Shut it out," Missouri orders, hushed and meaningful. "He's not yours to take."

 

Sam's mouth falls open. "A highway, in the woods," he says, body being wracked by one large shiver. "There's a woman, a woman in a white dress."

 

Sam's eyes scrunch up and he laughs, another tear rolling down his face. "It's Dad. I can see Dad," he forces out, his voice harshed by the emotion lodged in his throat. "Dad's got a lead, he's leaving that place... he's going after the demon."

 

Sam gasps. "We have to find him. We have to help. He can't do it alone."

 

Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "And we will, Sammy, when you're stronger."

 

He doesn't think Sam can hear him.

 

The vision ends like Sam's power cord has been unplugged and his eyes roll up into his head as he falls backward. Dean jumps forward and catches him, hefting him into his arms and depositing him onto the bed. He busies himself with stripping Sam of his jeans, tucking him under the sheets and folding Sam's arm on his chest. He checks Sam's pulse, Sam's temperature, and is satisfied with the results of both.

 

He turns back around to find Missouri's keen eyes on him, way too knowing, peeling down his carefully-built layers in half a second. He feels naked.

 

"You don't go breaking that boy's heart, you hear?" she asks, and Dean flushes, looking away.

 

"I, uh, I won't," he coughs, looking back up at her, and she beams.

 

"As if I couldn't see it," Missouri scoffs, like she's talking about the most normal, mundane thing in the word. "Even without reading your thoughts and moods, you boys moon after each other and pine and pine and pine, even though you've got each other in your pockets. You act like soulmates, if I've ever seen them. Just be careful with that, with your ability over him, okay?"

 

"I always am," Dean says, and he can't think of anything to say, but he guesses that his thoughts pretty much sum it up. He's only known Missouri for a couple of weeks, but she feels like an old friend, like a surrogate mother-mentor. She squashes him against her chest in a constricting hug, petting his hair.

 

When she releases him, he takes a moment to breathe again. She laughs. "I'll check up on you two in a while, okay? Just take it easy. Lord knows you deserve it."

 

Missouri disappears down the hall and Dean carefully closes the door, stripping down to his boxers and carefully slipping into the bed behind Sam, laying an arm across Sam's waist and nuzzling Sam's head.

 

Sam makes a baby noise in his sleep and shifts restlessly, but a single word from Dean is all it takes to make him relax. Maybe he does have a power over Sam, but if he does, then Sammy sure as hell has a power over him.

 

He doesn't mind. Not in the slightest. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

 

 

 

 

Sam is okay in the morning. His head doesn't hurt, and they're down to only one pill a day.

 

Even so, they take it easy, lounging in bed in sweatpants. Missouri brings up an old, boxy T.V., and they watch the Saturday morning cartoons on it.

 

"This shit was so much better when we were kids," Dean grouses, gesturing toward the weird sponge on the T.V. "You remember _Thundercats_ , Sammy? You loved that shit."

 

"Oh, don't remind me," Sam groans, "I think I still have some of the episodes memorized. So many reruns."

 

"Motel cable, good times," Dean laughs, stretching out his legs and wiggling his toes. When he’s not as bone-dead tired, he’s gonna drag Sam out for a ride in Baby, maybe grab some grub.

 

He glances over at Sam, pausing when he sees Sam's clenched draw, the worry wrinkles on Sam's forehead.

 

"Hey," he barks, slapping Sam on the chest, startling him. "Earth to Sam."

 

"What? Sorry," Sam says, blinking rapidly, his cheeks burning. "I was just thinking."

 

"You wanna share with the class?"

 

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just thinking about the vision. About Dad."

 

Dean shuffles closer and yawns, tossing his arm across Sam's shoulder. "And?"

 

"I looked up the place I saw, that highway? Breckenridge?" Sam says, staring at the T.V. but not focusing on it. "It's in California. Jericho."

 

Dean sits up. "That's near Palo Alto, isn't it? North of Sacramento?"

 

"Yeah, it is," Sam says, his voice quiet and thick with unshed tears. "Maybe--maybe we could go find him there, say goodbye to Jess. Say sorry."

 

"Hey," Dean growls, tugging on Sam's shoulder until Sam rests his head against Dean. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, okay? And it sounds like a good plan, Sam. Wouldn't it be nice to be on the road again? You n' me in baby, saving the world?"

 

Sam smiles. "We just gotta find Dad," he croaks. "It's all I can think about. I've got to find Jessica's killer, find the thing that did this to me."

 

Dean takes a shuddering breath. His grip tightens around Sam. He never wants to let go. "And we will, okay? But not by rushing in headfirst. You need to practice more, you need to learn more things, get stronger."

 

"But the trail will just keep getting colder, Dean," Sam argues. "I saw him leave Jericho in my vision. If we wait, he'll be long gone, and there'll be no trail to follow."

 

"Didn't you say he was working on a hunt?"

 

Sam hesitates, but nods. "Yeah, why?"

 

"He wouldn't let more people get hurt, he wouldn't leave people to die. He's still there, right now. Just stay here for a couple of days, okay? Just to get your strength up?"

 

"Fine," Sam says. "I just hate feeling useless."

 

"You're doing your best by being here," Dean assures him. "Why don't we go train right now?"

 

 

 

 

Sam holds a deck of cards in the air for a minute straight with just the power of his giant geekbrain, and Dean tells him that he's a hotter psychic than Jennifer Love Hewitt, by far. Sam tells him to shut up.

 

They break early, and Sam disappears into the bathroom while Dean and Missouri drag the couches back into place and fix up the living room.

 

"There's something I want to teach you, Dean," Missouri says out of the blue, setting a candle back onto the coffee table.

 

Dean stands up straight, tossing a pillow onto a couch. "Yeah? A Vulcan mind meld?"

 

"You have a connection with Sam," Missouri ignores him. "And you two can't stay here forever, even though I'd like to keep you hidden here ‘til the end of my days."

 

Dean smiles at her.

 

"I can teach you how to lead Sam through meditation, how to help him practice his telekinesis and his empathy. I can teach you how to teach him, so that when you're gone, you can keep helping him block off his psychic signature, you can help him get stronger."

 

"I wanna learn," Dean tells her. "Tell me everything you can."

 

 

 

 

That night, Dean is fucking exhausted. He'd bought a journal and written down everything Missouri had told him, taking notes on her little tips, putting down his own ideas. It seemed simple enough. He just had to guide Sam into the right frame of mind, open up his psychic link or whatever. He could definitely do that. He's already number one champion at calming down Sam, and to-may-to, to-mah-to, right?

 

Back upstairs, Sam watches from the bed as Dean tucks the journal into their duffels, which are back out of the closet, the symbol of a change. As eager as Dean is to get back to Dad, to be a family, he is sure as hell gonna miss this place. Before they got here, he and Sam were lost, and Sam was hurting in a deep, unreachable way.

 

Missouri fucking saved them, and he'll never forget that. He'll never forget her. He can understand why his Dad latched onto her so thoroughly when he was still reeling from the loss of the love of his life.

 

Dean watches Sam watching him. He can't imagine.

 

"You okay over there?" Dean asks, walking over to the bed.

 

Sam reaches up like a kid wanting to be picked up, wrapping his arms around Dean and kissing him gently. "Now I am," he says against Dean's lips.

 

Dean smiles, briefly pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead before pulling away and sliding onto the bed. "Long day, huh?"

 

"Not just for me," Sam points out. "How was it with Missouri?"

 

"It was great. I'm like your psychic guru now."

 

Sam looks down at his chest, holding the gemstone of his amulet in his palm. "Maybe I won't need this soon," he says.

 

"Keep it on, just to be safe. That way we can match."

 

Sam's eyes are drawn to Dean's amulet, a token of their love, and he smiles. "Yeah, okay."

 

That night, it's too warm for the bed comforter, for sleep clothes, so they curl around each other naked, just one thin sheet over their bodies. Dean rests a hand on the swell of Sam's hip, soft and angular. Sam wiggles closer, nuzzling his face against Dean's chest. Sam is burning hot, his temples and the base of his neck covered with little droplets of sweat.

 

"You friggin' furnace," Dean grumbles, and Sam laughs quietly, slipping one of his legs in between Dean's. It's mostly soft--Sam had been clean shaven when Dean found him, all over his entire body, and his hair was taking awhile to grow back, in stubbly little patches below his navel and across his legs.

 

Dean hums, petting Sam's skin. Sam shivers underneath his calloused touch, shuffling and reaching up until his lips are even with Dean's. They share a short, sloppy kiss, with tongues and spit. Dean pulls back, reaching up and pushing a lock of Sam's hair behind his hair. He smiles at Sam, and Sam smiles back, his eyes half-shut like a content cat.

 

Sam falls asleep right then and there, in front of Dean's face, his features without his usually chronic worry lines, his cupid's bow lips parted slightly.

 

Dean is happy to take it slow with Sam, to truly get to know him. It's gonna be different this time around, he can feel it. They'll meet up with Dad and Dad and Sam won't fight, they'll be a family. Sam will have control over himself, and as a perfect team, they'll take down the yellow-eyed bastard.

 

Something flips uneasily in his stomach, but he ignores it. He's allowed some fucking optimism every once in awhile. He doesn't want to think about Dad in a hospital or Sam being taken, dying in some no-name town. He doesn’t let his morbid imagination run rampant. Sure, the demon used to have an advantage over them, and power, too, but Dean's got Sam.

 

And that's all it ever takes to save the day.

 

Before the sun even rises, they rub lazily against one another, in no hurry. All they know is the feeling of each other's skin, of the other's smell, the other's voice when they moan and pant. Sam is trusting, Sam looks so young with his wide, heated eyes, and Dean refrains from taking like he wants to, from taking it too far. They have so many things they need to recover from, to talk about.

 

So they lay flushed, warm and safe, cocks rubbing in the most delicious way, and come in time with one another, breathing deep in the blue morning, listening to the bark of a dog outside and the sounds of the world waking up.

 

Dean cleans them up with a wash cloth while Sam lays there, sated, a dimpled grin stuck to his face. Dean kisses each dimple and they only grow. Sam opens his eyes and his smile dims, just a little. Dean can see the worry in his eyes, and he understands. Neither of them know what the next couple of days hold. They could fight monsters, demons, or other people, and the only preparation they've got is an ex-Marine's training and a psychic's teachings.

 

Sam and Dean practice with Missouri, each honing their separate skills. They go to an ammunitions store and re-stock on everything, packing the Impala's trunk full of supplies. Dean mows Missouri's lawn and Sam does her dishes, and she calls them good boys and feeds them hearty meals. The days seem to zoom by, and they're all thinking the same thoughts, never voicing them. Sam waits uneasily for a vision, spending extra time meditating each day as a precautionary measure.

 

"What are we gonna do when we find Dad?" Sam asks Dean.

 

Sam's sitting on the bed, researching the disappearances in California on a shiny new laptop. Dean's on the floor, sharpening a knife with a little whetstone. He looks up at Sam and shrugs. "Dad'll tell us about his leads and we'll go after the demon," he says.

 

"You sound so sure," Sam says, "but we don't even really know anything. We're just going on what Missouri told us and my visions."

 

Dean wipes the blade with a cloth. "Dad's been hunting this thing our entire lives. He'll have a plan, and if he doesn't, we'll just make one, Sam. With Caleb and Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby."

 

"Okay." That seems to satisfy Sam, at least fractionally. "What will we do about us?"

 

Dean puts down the knife. "About us?" he echoes.

 

Sam nods, worrying his lip between his teeth. "When we're with Dad, you know we can't... act like this."

 

"Making out and rubbing it out?" Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow, watching Sam glare back at him.

 

"No, I meant that we can't speak English or walk on two legs," Sam snarks back. "Yes, I meant that."

 

Dean shrugs again, watching Sam's face sour further. "We'll just deal with it."

 

"What if he finds out?"

 

"Sam," Dean sighs, shaking his head. "Will you drop it?"

 

"I just... I'm not as gung-ho about all of this as you are. I just have this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can't shake."

 

Usually, Dean's first reaction would be to tell Sam that it's just his stomach acting up, but now, knowing Sam, "having a feeling" about something could be a legitimate worry.

 

Sam doesn't need to know that, though. "We'll take the hits as they come," Dean says, keeping his voice even and confident. "You know we've gotta do something about this, Sammy. And we will."

 

"I know." Sam's voice is soft. "I just... I want to get to trust you more, like this, you know? How will we get to do that together if Dad watches us? What if we have to stop for good?"

 

Dean shakes his head, smiling.

 

Sam huffs. "Something funny?"

 

"No, dude, I just... he's not gonna be breathing down our necks, you know? Even when we leave, even when we're back to the road life, we'll have time. I promise. I'll..." Dean clears his throat, looking away. He draws up all his courage, ignores the part of him that wants to keep his feelings curled close to his chest, away from Sam's eyes. That wouldn't work, anyway. Sam's got x-ray vision when it comes to Dean.

 

"I'll make time for us," Dean finishes, and Sam doesn’t even wait, just comes over and gives him one of those sappy, squeezy hugs, and Dean's grateful that he can hide his stinging eyes in Sam's body, in Sam's shoulder that isn't just bone and taut skin anymore, he's got muscle, he's turning into that man Dean had dreamed about on the way to Palo Alto. They hold on, saving the moment. Dean doesn’t know when they’ll have another one like it.

 

Maybe they won't find Dad right away, or find the demon, but fuck, he found Sam. And not right away, not when Sam was out on that street corner. He's really found Sam now, and Sam's a little different, Sam's grown up, but he's also exactly how Dean remembers. He's coming back into his own skin.

 

Sam pulls back first. “Dean, I…” he swallows.

 

Dean doesn’t know whether to leave it at that or push. “Yeah?” he says, his mouth making the decision for him.

 

“I know I acted like an asshole at the beginning,” he starts, holding up a hand when Dean opens his mouth. “I kept trying so damn hard to push you away, but you stayed. You always stayed. Even when I was scared and I thought my curse would rub off on you. Without you, I… I don’t know where I’d be right now. At the bottom of a ditch, maybe? Nowhere good. So I’ve never really said it before, and I’m not good at talking about it, but uh, that life was hard and shitty and you saved me. I never did thank you for that.”

 

Dean waves him off, and he feels pressure in his throat and in his tear ducts. “Anytime, Sammy. You’d do the same for me. I don’t blame you for a second, you know that?”

 

“Well,” Sam says, giving Dean a reserved smile, “thank you.”

 

“You too, Sammy, you too,” Dean says, and he watches Sam’s eyes light up with understanding. It’s as close as he’ll ever get to saying it. Sam nods and grins at him with shiny eyes, always so beautiful, even when he’s coming apart.

 

 _Yeah,_ Dean thinks, believing it more and more with each passing second, _we have time._

 

Less than eight hours later, Sam wakes with a scream and sees blood and corpses. After the vision passes, and Sam’s limp and still after the agony he saw, Dean gets a text. He pulls out his phone, his arm trembling, Sam lying across his lap, the Impala’s engine roaring underneath his body.

 

It's coordinates.

 

_Fin_

  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a labor of love for months and months and months. I've never really done a big canon-divergence sort of thing. All comments and things are super duper appreciated, thank you so much for reading!


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